The Same Order

At the coffee counter.

The guy in front ordered a cortado.

Two shots? asked the barista.

He nodded.

I had lived this.

Not lived it.

Known it.

The way you know something

that hasn't happened yet

but is happening again.

The espresso machine made its sound.

The dark liquid filled the cup

the same way it always fills cups—

the way water is water,

the way Tuesday

is always Tuesday,

the way the light through the window

is always that particular shade of tired.

The man didn't know.

He was just a man

ordering coffee,

just nodding,

which is what men do

when baristas ask

if they want two shots.

And I was the only one who knew

I'd been here before.

Or I was also in the loop.

Maybe we were all in the loop.

Maybe the loop

is just what we call

Tuesday.

The coffee was ready.

The man took it.

The door closed.

I ordered the same thing,

and the barista asked

two shots?

and I nodded,

and I knew

I had always nodded,

would always nod,

was nodding

for the first time

and for the millionth time,

and they felt

identical.