The Gate with No Number

The water in the glass does not drop. It sustains a level just below the rim, a meniscus of perfect clarity. I stand at the gate where the numbers plaque is blank enamel. The overhead speakers hum a frequency that settles the nerves, a steady white noise that guarantees I will not be late. A figure passes the threshold of the door. It swings inward onto a second door, painted the institutional beige of the terminal, the frame separating the two openings. The weight of the empty air on the far side is heavier than expected. I walk toward the second door, its jamb dusted with fine, pale grit. The light shifts, smelling faintly of ozone and wet concrete.