The Slot

His hand moves toward the printer

same way it did three months ago,

same blue sleeve, same nod, and I'm

caught in the moment twice.

"Receipt?" he asks.

I don't want it.

I tell him no—

same word, same breath,

and the paper curls out anyway.

The light on the counter hasn't changed.

My voice in the same key.

Last time I took it.

Folded it down.

Threw it away in the parking lot.

Now his hand is already falling

toward the slot.

Now I'm already saying no.

The machine knows what comes next.