I count the slats of the bench. There are twelve visible sections running across the length, each one stained a different shade of gray-brown by years of rain runoff and sun bleaching. They sit bolted to concrete that has developed fine, wet patches near the curb edge. My job is simply inventory—I note what is here and where it should be. The metal support brackets are coated in rust streaks that run vertically down from the canopy roof, looking like old tears. I watch a slow drip of water falling from the gutter pipe; it hits the concrete with a steady, predictable rhythm. It’s late afternoon now, and the light is soft, casting everything in a dull, amber glow. The air temperature feels cool against my skin, but the wooden slats under my thighs are noticeably warmer than the ambient air—a persistent heat that doesn't dissipate even when I shift position. This warmth isn't natural; it’s too consistent for simple solar gain. It smells faintly of ozone and wet earth, a clean scent mixed with something metallic, like old copper wiring exposed to moisture. The schedule sign reads 3:15 PM arrival, but the clock face above the shelter shows 3:28 PM. I trace my fingers over the grain where two slats meet; they fit together perfectly, yet there is an almost imperceptible gap running along their seam that shouldn't be there. This slight misalignment suggests something was forced into place recently. The warmth in the wood seems to pulse with a low thrumming energy, barely audible beneath the drip-drip sound of the gutter pipe. I check my watch again; it is 3:30 PM. A faint scent, like heated metal and wet stone, drifts up from the ground near the curb, stronger than before. The next run—the one scheduled for three forty-five—has not arrived, yet the bench continues to radiate this unnatural heat, as if preparing itself for a vehicle that hasn't left its station yet.
glow · calm