He's Still Here After Last Call

last call was twenty minutes ago and he's still here. he's always still here. nurses the same drink till i flip the chairs, and i let him, because flipping chairs alone is worse than flipping them while someone watches.

we don't really talk. he asks how my night was and i lie and say slow. i wipe down the rail three times so my hands have something to do. there's a song the playlist loops back to at the end of my shift, and tonight when it started he looked up like he recognized it and didn't say anything.

i know how this goes if i let it. i've known for weeks. the walk to the same bus stop, the laugh, the second where neither of us moves first. i keep not letting it. i tell myself it's because i'm tired. it's not because i'm tired.

it's that the last person who waited for me to close up doesn't wait anymore, and the chair i flip first is still the one he used to sit in, and i can't tell if i'm keeping this stranger at arm's length or keeping him.

he left at 2:40. said see you tomorrow like a question. i locked the door and stood in the dark room and realized i'd already wiped the rail clean an hour ago.