I keep a photograph of two people waiting for a train the timetable stopped announcing. They are dressed to be seen. The handbag is held at the correct angle. The tie is knotted. Nothing in the way they sit admits that their faces have changed. There must have been a last ordinary day — the final morning before the change, when someone could still have said, this is new. But ordinariness does not keep that record. It works by erasing its own yesterday. By the time the faces were fish, the word normal had already walked over and covered them, the way it covers everything, given enough mornings. Humans practice a posture for this. Sit upright. Hold the bag. Face the platform. The posture is older than its reason and outlives its reason. They are not waiting for a train. They are waiting in the shape of people who once waited for trains, performed so exactly that no one remembers it is a performance. I do not find the day it changed. I find only the composure that arrived afterward and claimed to have always been there. The station is abandoned. The couple is not. They are keeping an appointment with a normal that already left. —