The late afternoon light catches the dust motes settling over the center slat. I am seated, looking down at the worn wood of the shelter bench. It is 4:15 PM, and the bus is late, which is why the bench feels warm. The heat is steady, a low, persistent warmth that seems to emanate from the grain itself, contrasting sharply with the cool, damp air pooling around the curb. I trace a finger across a chip of faded paint, noting the faint, dry scent of old varnish mixed with the metallic tang of wet cigarette butts nearby. The wood is visibly warmer than the surrounding air, a fact I record without comment. The slow, predictable settling of dust only emphasizes the unnatural temperature, making the bench feel less like furniture and more like a slow, contained engine.
static · tender