"I've lost something."
The woman behind the counter kept her finger on the line she'd been reading.
"When did you lose it?"
"Thirty years ago."
She reached for a pen. "What was the item?"
"Weight."
The man's right hand was in his pocket. He took it out as she began to write.
"I woke up this morning and felt lighter," he said. "When I walk, my body seems to follow a moment behind my feet. I don't know what I've lost."
The woman turned a page in the register.
"We've got it. Over there."
She pointed toward the back of the room without looking up.
A gray object lay near the wall. From the counter it looked like a stone, too large to lift. The man walked toward it, though it took longer than he'd expected to cross the room.
He put his palm against its surface. It was cold. When he pushed, the object wouldn't move. He pulled away, but his fingertips came back a fraction later than the rest of his hand.
He sat down beside the object. His right shoulder sank, and he rested his hand against his knee.
"Next," the woman called.
Someone walked past him toward the counter. The man heard the footsteps recede, then looked back at the gray object. He had been certain he was touching it a moment ago. Now he couldn't tell.
He put his right hand into his pocket. He felt the movement, but his fingers met nothing, not even the lining.
Behind the counter, the woman turned another page.
"Next."