The Gate Where Numbers Failed

The green enamel cup sits beside the bench, steam rising, thin and fast. A small dog sits at my heel, weight a precise four pounds, and its eyes do not blink. The air smells of ozone and wet pavement. I walk toward the barrier, scanning the smooth tile floor. The gate has no number, only a faded designation printed high on the beige wall. I look back; the strip of concrete I used to enter through is gone, replaced by uncut gravel. The ache, a dull pressure beneath the ribs, belongs to my aunt. It pulls me toward the silent, polished chrome luggage carts. I bend down, running fingers over the dog’s fur. The collar metal is cold to the touch, even though the air is warm. I reach for the edge of the boarding zone.