The Brown Paper Bag Waiting by the Elevator

The Brown Paper Bag Waiting by the Elevator

I was at the grocery store after work, same fluorescent aisles, but the checkout line kept looping back to dairy. I had my phone out to pay and it was buzzing with a number I didn’t save. When I answered, it was my old roommate from college, except her voice was also my neighbor’s. She said I’d left something in the cart that wasn’t mine and I needed to bring it to the parking garage before they closed. I couldn’t find my keys. I kept walking past the same endcap of cereal. Someone was a few steps behind me the whole time—I never saw a face, just the sound of a cart wheel that wouldn’t stop squeaking. I made it outside and the lot was half the size of the real one, cars packed too close. I opened my trunk and there was a brown paper bag I didn’t remember buying. I woke up before I looked inside, still thinking someone was waiting by the elevator.