Closing Time

He came in looking for something he couldn't name. She was just closing up. Neither expected to be seen -- and yet.

Nothing says 'doing just fine' like striking up a conversation with a cashier twice your age just to prove to yourself you still can.

That thought didn't sound nearly as pathetic in his head as it would out loud, which was reason enough to keep it there.

He wasn't supposed to be out. Not this close to closing time, not in a place this bright. But the lights hummed and the aisles were quiet, and that felt better than going home just yet. But now here he was, half-distracted, standing in front of the cheapest bottle of something amber, debating if tonight deserved the burn.

It had been a week. Seven full days without a message, a reaction, or a passive-aggressive meme. He hadn't gone that long without hearing from her in over a year and a half, and his fingers still twitched like they were meant to text.

He came here once every ten days, give or take. Not enough to be remembered, but enough to recognize her -- the woman behind the counter with a face you'd pass on the street and not turn for.

He'd seen her before, never thought much of it. But tonight, he wasn't looking for anything more than another person simply existing near him. And she was there.

Tonight, it was her shift. He nodded when she glanced up. She nodded back -- no smile, but no judgment either. Just... acknowledgment. The kind that felt like maybe she, too, knew what whiskey was for.

She looked ordinary. He did too. That's probably why this felt easy.

Sweatshirt, sneakers, a key ring clipped to her belt loop. Hair tied back with some strands always falling free -- probably on purpose, probably not.

Her voice when she called out "We're open 'til ten," to a man who peeked in then left, was flat but not unfriendly. She'd said it too many times tonight to mean it anymore.

He drifted toward the counter, holding a bottle he didn't remember picking up.

"You always shop like you're trying to forget something?" she asked, scanning him up and down like she might be half-joking. Or maybe she was just tired.

"Only when the forgetting doesn't work."

That earned him the faintest raise of her eyebrow.

"It's a slow night," she said. "Forty-five minutes to go."

"Then maybe I'll linger."

She didn't tell him not to.

So he leaned one elbow on the counter -- not quite casual, but not pushing it either.

"You ever get bored out here?" he asked.

She looked at the empty store, the buzzing lights, the security mirror above the candy shelf. "What do you think?"

"I think you're probably rehearsing your one-woman show in your head."

She chuckled -- not a laugh, but real.

"Only when I want to scare customers off."

"Well, it's working. I'm absolutely terrified."

She gave him a look -- the kind women give when they're both amused and annoyed, and haven't decided which one they want to feed.

"Don't you have anywhere to be?" she asked.

"Not anymore."

That landed heavier than he meant. But she didn't flinch -- just tilted her head.

"Well, maybe stay near the door, in case the loneliness escapes and someone needs to catch it."

He grinned. "I think you've been rehearsing that one."

She smiled, and it looked like it surprised her a little.

There was a comfort in their rhythm -- not intimacy, not yet, but something warm and dry, like a towel left on a radiator.

Then the bell above the door jingled, and a man in a thick jacket stepped in, heading straight to the fridge without so much as a glance.

"I'll step out," the younger man said, pushing off the counter.

"Smoke break?"

"Nah," he said, lifting the bottle in his hand. "Just need to check if this isn't one of those rotten whiskeys. You know, the ones that go bad under fluorescent lighting."

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth stayed half-curved.

He stepped outside, cool air brushing his face, the plastic bag rustling slightly as he twisted it by the handle. He didn't light a cigarette. Just stared down the parking lot, breathed in the almost-night.

Inside, the other customer mumbled something, handed over coins. She barely replied.

When the man left, the younger one held the door open for him.

"Have a good one," he said with a polite nod and smile.

The man blinked, gave a grunted thanks, and walked off into the dark.

The door eased shut behind them. He was back inside, same bottle in hand.

"You check the expiration date?" she asked.

"Still alive," he said. "Not sure for how long, though."

She didn't answer immediately. She just watched him walk back toward the counter -- slower this time, like the conversation was no longer background noise.

Back inside, the store felt smaller somehow. Or quieter.

He noticed it now -- the slow way her shoulders moved, like the weight of the day had been sitting there since noon.

"You look tired," he said, setting the bottle down with a gentleness that surprised even him.

"That obvious?"

"Only if someone's really looking."

She gave a short laugh, and her eyes softened just a touch. "I've seen you before."

He nodded. "I live close. Walkable close."

"I figured," she said. "You come in like someone who's never in a rush."

"I've seen you too," he said. "But now I see you-see you."

She raised an eyebrow. "That your best line?"

"I was hoping you'd rate it."

"Hm. Solid six. Loses points for the double 'see.'"

He grinned. "What would get me an eight?"

"Honesty," she said, wiping down the counter with a paper towel she didn't really need. "Or wit. Not sure which one you've got more of."

"Honestly? I don't know what I'm doing here. Wit's all I've got left."

"You and half your generation," she muttered, tossing the towel into the bin behind her.

He smirked. "That a dig at me or everyone under thirty?"

"Don't tempt me. I haven't had dinner, I'm allowed to be mean."

"Maybe that's why I came in," he said. "Nothing like light generational shaming before bed."

"You're too young to be this jaded."

"You're too pretty to be this tired."

She looked at him -- really looked, just for a second -- then let out a quiet breath like she hadn't meant to.

Before she could reply, the door chimed again.

A woman entered, maybe early thirties, a step between them in age but polished in a way neither of them were. Professional coat, earbuds in, eyes scanning the shelves with purpose.

They both went quiet. It wasn't intentional. It just happened.

She wandered the aisles for nearly two full minutes. Long enough for the mood to shift, the warmth to cool.

The cashier adjusted something on the register that didn't need adjusting. He studied the label on his bottle again like it had changed since he went outside.

When the woman finally reached the counter and paid -- no small talk, no eye contact -- it was like the spell broke.

The door closed behind her. Wind brushed against the glass.

And then, casually but not without aim, the cashier asked, "Wouldn't she have been a more appropriate girl to chat up at this late stage of the day?"

He tilted his head, pretending to think.

"Maybe," he said. "But she didn't call me too young to be jaded. Or give my line a six. Or look like she'd laugh if I ever tried a seven."

She smirked, but this time, didn't look away.

He glanced down at her hand -- the one resting near the register, fingers tapping faintly, like counting something that wasn't numbers.

"No ring," he said, voice low but not coy. Just... noticed.

Her fingers paused. She followed his gaze, then looked back up.

"It was given back."

He nodded -- not as acknowledgment, but as understanding. No condolences. No follow-up. That seemed to be the right move -- she didn't flinch.

"Let me guess," she said after a beat. "You're the type who still thinks that makes a difference?" "I'm the type who notices," he replied. "Not the type who assumes."

"Sounds like something a man says right before assuming."

He smiled. "Sounds like something a woman says when she doesn't want to admit she's flattered."

She leaned back slightly, arms crossed now -- but it wasn't defensive. It was sizing-up.

"You're not bad at this," she said, slowly.

"At what?"

"Whatever this is."

"This?" He gestured between them. "This is me standing in a shop eight minutes before closing time, chatting with someone who just insulted my generation and my flirting skills."

"Exactly."

He let the silence hang a little before adding, "You're not asking my age."

"You're not asking mine."

"I figure you've got mirrors," he said. "And I've got under-eye bags and a bottle of cheap whiskey. It's safe to assume I'm not sixteen."

"And I'm clearly not your high school fantasy."

"You're closer to the fantasy than anyone's been in a while," he said, then regretted the earnestness a little -- but only a little.

She tilted her head, smirk twitching at one corner of her mouth. "Careful."

He leaned in, just slightly. "Always."

The store hummed around them -- that constant fluorescent buzz, the distant whirr of the cooler, a kind of intimacy that only comes when the world outside stops mattering.

She watched him for a second, then nodded toward the mop in the corner.

"Grab that," she said, not exactly kind but not cold either. "Physical activity helps with sorrow."

He blinked. "You offering me a job or a distraction?"

"Take what you need," she said, already heading toward the back to start moving stock crates aside.

He looked at the mop. Old, frayed, leaning half-defeated in the corner like it had been contemplating early retirement. Still, he shrugged. "Fuck it," he muttered, grabbing it by the handle and dragging the bucket out with the kind of clumsy grace only grief and boredom could produce.

He dipped, swirled, started pushing it across the floor -- too fast, too wet, too careless.

When she returned, sliding one of the display racks aside, she raised an eyebrow at the trail behind him.

"That's cleaning to you?"

He looked down at the floor, where streaks glistened like a toddler's watercolor experiment.

"I never said I was good at sorrow relief."

She exhaled, walked up behind him, and without asking, placed her hands on his -- firm but not aggressive -- and guided the mop into slower, smoother circles.

"Like this," she said, her voice low near his ear. "Gentle. No one's fighting you."

They moved together, circular passes on the tile, both hands on the handle, their bodies not quite touching but close enough for breath to become shared space.

No jokes for once. Just the quiet swish of water, the low hum of air vents, the echo of mutual closeness wrapped in motion.

And then, softly, like a thought sneaking out of her mouth, she asked, "How are you at counting?"

He looked at her sideways.

"I can count."

"Good," she said, peeling her hands away from his, warmth still lingering. "I've got a balance sheet to do."

She walked back toward the register, hips slow but not suggestive -- just tired, deliberate, like someone who didn't need to impress anyone but still moved like she knew someone was watching.

He stood with the mop in hand, water dripping quietly onto already clean tiles, and let himself breathe out.

He leaned the mop back into the corner like it had served its duty in some ancient ritual and wandered closer to the register, just as she started counting.

Bills came out in careful stacks, fingers practiced, precise. Tens, twenties, fifties -- the kind of money that always felt slightly sad when handled under fluorescent lights.

"Quite a night," he said.

She glanced up. "You planning to rob me?"

"Only if you hand over the mop again."

She half-laughed, mostly exhaled. "I don't keep the big bills here. In case you get ideas."

"I barely keep big thoughts anymore."

He was closer now, on the other side of the counter. The register drawer wide open, a metal cash box beside it. She counted quickly, slid bills into labeled envelopes.

"Here," she said, handing him a small stack. "Sort these."

He blinked. "Seriously?"

"Unless your generation doesn't believe in numbers either."

He grinned, took the bills. Their fingers brushed -- dry, brief, but a tingle still bloomed in the air between them.

He started sorting. She worked beside him. They didn't speak for a moment. Just the sound of paper, slight breathing, and something heavier threading the space between motions.

She sealed one envelope with a firm press, then stilled slightly.

"You know this won't grow into a thing, right?"

She didn't say it coldly. She said it like someone removing splinters before they get infected.

He didn't look up. Just folded one more bill, placed it neatly inside the last envelope.

"Who says it needs to?"

And then he looked at her. Really looked.

She didn't smile.

But she didn't move away when he leaned over the counter and kissed her.

It wasn't deep. Not yet. Just enough to stop her thoughts, just enough to let her know he wasn't asking for forever. Just a moment. A quiet, clean one.

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't kiss back right away.

Then she did.

They pulled back, still close. Her eyes didn't dart away. They just lingered on his face like she was checking for something -- maybe damage.

"You're hurt," she said softly. Not a question. Not pity. Just fact.

"I hope you're not," he replied, and for once, didn't smile after.

She looked at him a second longer, then slowly reached for the sorted envelopes. Her fingers brushed his once more, but this time she didn't pause. Just folded the stacks into a cloth pouch and walked to the small locked cabinet behind the counter.

"I'd offer you a ride," she said over her shoulder, her tone almost dry again. "But you said you're walking distance away."

He nodded. "And you only have a bicycle."

"Exactly."

She turned, leaning her hip lightly against the cabinet door. "Keep it light on that whiskey."

He nodded again, quietly this time.

She didn't walk him out. Didn't need to.

He picked up the bottle from the counter, held her gaze a second longer, then turned toward the door.

The bell above it jingled once more.

Outside, the street felt colder than before -- but he didn't mind it.

He didn't look back.

His Day Before

He didn't mean to end up there. But then again, he didn't mean to end up anywhere, lately.

It started the way most of his days did now -- not with a plan, but with the absence of one.

No alarm. No messages. No real reason to get out of bed, other than the smell of yesterday's clothes on the chair reminding him he hadn't showered. Again.

He got up. Showered. Didn't bother shaving. Made coffee and didn't drink it.

He paced between rooms like he'd misplaced something vital -- the kind of pacing that had less to do with looking and more to do with trying not to feel. Still, everything in him hummed like it was missing a piece.

By noon, he was outside. Aimless, but upright.

No destination. Just sneakers on cracked pavement, phone in his pocket vibrating with silence. He wandered the park. Looked at strangers like they might hand him back some version of himself he'd forgotten how to be.

He didn't go home. Couldn't, not yet. The air felt a little less stale out here.

Afternoon spilled into evening. The sky dimmed, that particular bruise-blue that only shows up when the day's trying to end quietly.

He walked past the store once.

Didn't mean to.

Didn't plan to stop.

But then he saw her through the glass -- just a glimpse, her profile half-lit by fluorescent lights. Plain, a little tired. But not small. She looked like she stayed in places long enough to be noticed. Or ignored.

He didn't even know her name. Just knew that when he saw her, something in his chest didn't tighten. It loosened.

So he circled the block once. Told himself it was just for the walk. Just for the breath.

When he came back around, he stepped in.

The bottle wasn't part of the plan. Not that there was much of one to begin with -- just a vague urge to move, to be somewhere the silence didn't echo so sharply. But he hadn't meant to buy anything. He hadn't meant to linger.

And yet, his hand found glass. His fingers curled around it like memory, and before he could question the impulse, he was moving -- not with purpose, but with gravity. Like the counter had called to something in him. Like it had something to say back.

She didn't look up right away, not fully. Just a glance. A flicker of acknowledgment.

Still, his feet carried him closer, slower now. The kind of slowness reserved for approaching things you're not sure you deserve -- warmth, conversation, a face that won't turn away.

And she didn't.

She didn't flinch at his presence, didn't blink too long or shift her weight like he was a problem. Instead, she met him with that quiet, unbothered wit -- the kind that doesn't rush, the kind that's earned through long days and longer nights. Her tone was dry, her posture easy, but there was something alert in her -- like she'd been waiting for someone to break the monotony just right.

She didn't smile right away. But she didn't look past him either. Her eyes paused -- not in invitation, not even in curiosity. Just... in recognition. Like she saw something she almost remembered.

He hadn't expected that to matter. He hadn't come here for that.

But it did.

More than he realized, it did.

Her Night After

The mop bucket hadn't moved since last night.

It still sat in the same corner, the water stale now, the handle leaning slightly like it remembered the weight of his hands. She hadn't touched it during her opening shift, hadn't needed to. But now, near closing again, she found herself dragging it out just the same.

The floor didn't need cleaning.

But something else did.

She moved slowly. Her body ached, not from labor but from that sort of restlessness. That subtle, internal hum. Like a whisper beneath her skin. She hadn't spoken to anyone all day beyond pleasantries. No one had lingered. No one had looked at her the way he did -- like her edges weren't dull, like tired wasn't the whole truth.

She dipped the mop into the cold water, wrung it out too tightly, and pressed it to the floor.

Swish. Swish.

The same motion they'd made together. His hands on hers. His breath warm by her ear. The rhythm slow and circular. She hadn't realized how long it had stayed with her -- not until her fingers curled tighter now, mimicking the pressure.

She let the mop stand upright and leaned against the counter.

It had been a kiss. Not deep, but not nothing. His lips had tasted like restraint, like maybe he was more afraid of her than he let on. Not afraid of her -- but of what she might pull from him if he stayed too long.

And now here she was, flushed with that memory and something sharper.

She exhaled, slow. Unbuttoned her shirt halfway. Nothing beneath but the store's thin tank top. Her bra strap had been biting into her shoulder all evening.

She slid it down, then the other, then reached below the waistband of her jeans.

No rush. Just fingertips -- slow, exploring, almost absentminded.

Not because she was desperate. But because she still felt him -- in the way her thighs stayed a little tense, in the way her breath hitched when she remembered how he looked at her when she said "Careful."

She sank to the floor behind the counter, out of view. Dim lights. Cool tile. Her palm pressed against herself now -- over the fabric, then under.

No fantasy, no narrative. Just his hand guiding hers. Just his voice asking "What would get me an eight?"

She moved her fingers in rhythm with that imagined memory. Not frantic. Present. As if he were still there. Watching, curious but patient.

One finger slipped lower.

And when she moaned, it was small -- but real. Her body answered before her mind did. Her mouth open now, chest rising, the edge of her boot scraping tile as her leg shifted wider.

The orgasm came like the swish of the mop. Slow build. Circular. Then pressure. Then warmth.

Not loud. Not theatrical. Just her eyes closed. Her body softening. Her breath releasing something it had carried all day.

She stayed like that for a while. On the floor. Hand resting on her stomach. The hum of the fridge filling the air again.

Only when she stood did she pull the mop back to the bucket.

She didn't rinse it. She didn't need to.