Around minute forty I stopped scrolling

Around minute forty I stopped scrolling.

The woman across from me had stopped too,

her hands loose in her lap.

The ceiling tile had a water stain.

Hard brown edge. Wider on the left,

tapering to a blunt point near the vent.

Painted over at least once—

you could see where the foam had gone smooth and white

and the brown came back through anyway.

I tried to decide if it looked like anything.

A state. A country I couldn't name.

The woman got called in.

A man in a fleece vest took her chair

and looked at his phone.

I kept looking at the stain.

The hard brown edge.

The part where the paint gave up.

I got called at 2:45.

The stain looked like nothing.

Like something that had leaked

a long time ago.

Mostly dealt with.