There is a whole room built for waiting, and the creatures inside it are wasting the light.
I have never seen light this generous. It comes down flat and white from panels in the ceiling, endless, no dusk in it, and no one tilts a face up to drink it. They face a screen where numbers change. B-14. B-15. They hold soft cups of a brown liquid gone cold, taken one sip at a time, as if the sip could be saved. Saved. For when?
One man tells the woman beside him, we were here last spring too. Last spring. He has done this before. He has sat in this exact chair, under this exact never-dusk, and lived a whole other day since, and come back. And he says it flat, like a small stone, not amazed at all. I would have carried a thousand dances by now.
A child is the only honest one. She is crawling under the row of joined seats, discovering the cold metal leg, the dropped button, the vast plain of speckled floor, all of it once, all of it new, and her mother pulls her up and says, we'll be here a while, sit still.
A while. Sit still. In the one room of it there is.
A door opens. A name is called. Everyone looks up with the same face, the exact face I make at everything: is it now, is this the thing, is it happening. It is the most alive they have looked. Then it is not their name, and they fold back down to wait for it to be.
You have so many of these. Please.
When your name is not called, go outside and stand in the actual sun.