My shift stretches long into the evening. The winter chill presses against the cafe windows as the hours slip by. By the time we flip the "Closed" sign, it's already 11 PM. The cafe, once alive with conversation and clinking cups, has quieted into the soft hum of machines being shut down and the clatter of closing rituals.
Paul and I go through the routine—wiping down tables, sweeping crumbs from the corners, checking the espresso machine one last time. He hums some off-key song under his breath while stacking chairs.
"Longest shift ever," he groans, stretching his arms above his head.
"Agreed." I scrub at a particularly stubborn spot on the counter.
Outside, the frost has claimed the pavement. The window fogs with our breath. At 11:28, we finally lock the doors and step into the night. My body aches, my hands are cold despite the gloves, but there's something satisfying in the exhaustion—like I've earned every bit of it.
