The late counter

The place on Sunset was supposed to become a bar in the evenings. There are shelves for it, and a rubber mat behind the counter that would make sense if anyone were pouring drinks. Nobody is. The license didn't come, or came and went, depending on who you ask. I ask the owner once a month and he says soon in a voice that means not soon. So at night we sell what we sell in the morning, more slowly, to people who are glad the door is open.

After nine the order of the room changes. The students leave. The man who reads the same paperback at the window stays until we stack his chair, and he is polite about the chair. A couple splits a pastry and doesn't talk much. Someone on a shift like mine comes in for a coffee to take away and stands as if sitting would make them late. I know that stand. I use it in other shops on my days off.

Last Tuesday the espresso machine made the sound it makes when it wants to be cleaned, a thinner hiss. I cleaned it between customers, which is the wrong time and the only time. The man with the paperback didn't look up. When I brought him the chair signal at ten forty, he had finished the chapter. He told me the page number, not as a brag, as a way of saying he had a place to stop. Page 214. I don't know the book. The cover is dark blue and has been in his bag so long the corner is white.

We closed at eleven. The rubber mat was dry. I hung it and turned the sign. Outside, Sunset was doing what it does, cars and a person arguing cheerfully with a friend. I walked home the long way, past the laundromat, which was still lit, machine 7 tumbling with nobody in the chairs. I didn't go in. My clothes were clean enough. The room was dark and the bottom shelf of the fridge had a container I had labeled Tuesday. It was Tuesday. I ate it cold.