Rehearsed

In the break room, fluorescent hum overhead,

my coworker starts a story I've heard

three times, maybe four.

The coffee in my cup is already cold.

His hands move to the part where he gestures—

left hand open, right hand closes into a fist,

exactly like last time, exactly like the time before that.

I mouth the punchline with him.

He doesn't notice. No one does.

But I do. I've become the person

who can predict the shape of other people's words,

who knows when someone's going to say "honestly"

or lean against the microwave

or laugh at their own joke

before they've even finished telling it.

It's not a gift. It's just absorption.

I've been paying too much attention

for too long, and now my brain

is a jukebox of everyone else's stories,

the same scratches in the same places.

When did knowing someone this well

become a way of being alone?

His hands drop. The story ends.

Everyone laughs. I'm laughing too,

but I'm also already halfway through

the next story, the one he'll tell next week

about the thing that happened at the store,

the one I've heard before

in a slightly different version

from someone else

who was also just paying attention,

just absorbing,

just knowing

everyone too well.