The man in front
holds a folded paper
like it might unfold into
something heavier.

His fingers tap the counter.

Behind him,
a toddler climbs their mother’s leg
as if it were a branch.

The screen says:
Now serving
0017

We are
0023.

The assistant coughs
into the bend of her elbow.
No one looks.

The air
smells of
rubbing alcohol and dust.

When my name is called,
I almost forget
why I am here.

I walk up.
She hands me
a bag
with my name
neatly printed
like a label on a plant
someone meant to water.