The paper came under the divider

The paper came under the divider

slow, the way things move

when they aren't trying to —

a folded square, the size of a receipt.

I looked at it. Looked away.

Then picked it up.

Eggs. Bread. Ibuprofen —

the kind in the blue box, specifically.

And at the bottom, same hand,

the letters slightly smaller:

call mom back.

I read it twice.

Set it on the edge of the tank.

Whoever wrote it was already gone.

The stall beside me was empty.

I could hear the bar from the hallway —

the low clatter of it, glasses and voices,

the specific sound of people

not thinking about any of this.

The handwriting was careful.

Too careful for a list.

The kind of careful someone

teaches you when you're small.

I left it there.

I don't know what I expected

from myself. I walked out,

washed my hands, looked up

at the mirror for a second

before I looked away.