Fri, 19 December

Gate 19 Someone is peeling off a hoodie and for a moment there are two of them— the one underneath, surprised by cool air, and the one still tangled in the fabric, all elbows and static. The name on the intercom could be anyone's. It travels the terminal like a bird that can't find the window it came in through. I have been seventeen degrees and eighty-four percent of something for longer than I can account for. The gate number is a fact I keep checking the way you touch your pocket for a phone you're already holding. Somewhere between Hamilton and here there is a version of me who already left. He is not overheated. He does not answer to anything.