The woman ahead wore a gray coat

The woman ahead wore a gray coat.

The fluorescent buzzed its particular note.

The pharmacist paused — that same small beat —

before the bag came over the laminate sheet.

And I knew it. Knew it before it was done.

The pause, the coat, the bag, the hum.

The exact slant of the line we were standing in.

I'd been here. I'd watched this begin.

I know I hadn't. The rational part

says: trick of memory, trick of the heart,

pattern-matching gone slightly wrong.

I know. But I stood there long

enough to feel it settle in my chest —

not fear exactly. More like unrest.

More like: what if the scene's already set

and you're the only one who doesn't know it yet.

The woman took her bag and moved on.

The hum kept humming. The feeling wasn't gone.

I paid. I left. The automatic door

slid open. I'd been through it before.