On Closing Time

I like watching closing time.

The thrum begins to lull as the instrumental pop music pretends it’s still accompanying a bustle of activity. Tables and chairs squeak across the ground as they are re-gridded by cleaning staff. Lowering chain-link barriers resonate through a space no longer crowded with bodies to absorb the sound. Garbage bins roll roughly on those cheap castors, bags pulled from within. A large set of keys jangle from a guard’s waist walking by, anticipating their use before long. Otherwise hidden infrastructure is made alive.

Groups are sitting at the food court common tables, empty paper plates strewn in front of them, continuing their spirited conversations. New folks trickle in (to shelter from the rain if anything). Some people still rush: select food workers hammering out orders at the popular joint yet to close. Many of their competitors are long dark. Most people move slowly, workers and visitors alike, worn out from the day, taking it easy.

The light around me becomes more sharp as window and sky light fade. In a public place, closing time is singular, but an extended moment. This place still has a while until it truly closes for the night.