One Banana and a Monster

the store's mine after midnight. mine and the freezer hum, which i don't even hear anymore until it cuts out and the quiet drops on you like a coat. i face the shelves. that's the word for it, facing, pulling everything forward so the gaps don't show, so the morning people think the night was busy. i've gotten good at making empty look full.

there's a guy who comes in around 2:15 most nights. one banana, one Monster, never says much. tonight he didn't come and i kept looking at the door, didn't even realize i was waiting until he didn't show. that's the thing nobody tells you about nights. you build a little life out of strangers. the radio plays the same forty songs. my manager texts the schedule at 1am like anyone's awake to read it but me. i restocked the soup nobody buys, straightened the gum, traded these hours for a number that hits my account thursday and is gone by friday. i'm not sad exactly. i just keep facing shelves for a store that opens for other people. at 3 i'll mop the front where it's already clean, because the floor being mine is the closest thing to it being mine at all.