"Are you waiting for someone?"
The automatic door hissed shut, leaving the chime to ring into the empty aisles. Behind the counter, the security guard shifted his weight, his boots squeaking against the polished linoleum. He watched the girl in the corner. She’d been there for forty minutes, staring at the empty plastic chair across from her.
To him, she was a ghost in the making. To me, the store was the only place that still felt real.
I had just come from school—a blur of radio drama rehearsals where I spent hours projecting my voice into a cold microphone. Now, I had no voice left. My feet had carried me here again: 7/11. The same seat. The same cup of coffee. The white paper straw was already softening and fraying against the rim of the red cup, losing its shape just like the thoughts in my head.
Outside, the city moved in a smear of headlights, like an old film reel spinning too fast. But inside, beneath the hum of the overhead lights, time thickened and slowed.
You were sitting across from me. You wore that red jacket—the one that smelled like wind and detergent. Your white helmet rested in your hands like a giant pearl. You were mid-sentence, telling me a story about how life made you the way you are, and I laughed like a child.
Somewhere between your sentences, the late-night regulars; the tired laborers and restless teenagers thinned into strangers. Eventually, they vanished entirely. You were the only person I recognized.
"I’ll throw these extra cups and paper bags away, alright?"
The guard’s voice broke the silence, dry but careful. He wasn’t unkind; he was just trying to map the quiet.
I looked at the empty chair where the red jacket had been seconds ago. The smell of wind faded, replaced by the sterile sting of floor wax and the oily heat of hot dogs turning on the rolling grill. The phantom warmth of our conversation static-faded, leaving only the low, electric thrum of the refrigerators.
I turned to him, my fingers tracing the damp, collapsing straw.
"I’m actually waiting for this store to close."
He frowned, glancing at the Open 24 Hours sign flickering above the glass door. He didn’t know what to do with an answer that didn’t fit his logbook. He adjusted his belt and looked away, his reflection caught in the glass of the drink coolers—just another silhouette trapped in the neon.
I thought I was getting better at measuring time in cups of coffee instead of hours. One a day felt manageable. A tribute, rather than a haunting.
Still, it wasn’t enough.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll try harder to leave when the cup is empty. Or maybe I’ll stay until the sun bleaches the neon sign.
I’ll order another.
I’ll wait for the chime of the door, hoping that just once, the transmission stays clear and it’s you walking through it.
-| Fluorescent Hours |-