Midnight, Sugar
A moment dissolving in streetlight and steam
The air is thick with the ghost of rain, pavement sweating under the neon hum of a twenty-four-hour bodega. I stand just inside the doorway, one boot toeing the edge of the rubber mat, watching a man outside strike a match against his thumbnail. The flame stutters and curls inward like a cat, then vanishes in a breath, leaving only the red ember of his cigarette and the sharp scent of sulfur.
Inside, the freezer doors glisten with condensation, rows of Coke bottles and coconut water sweating in their glass tombs. A woman in a pilled hoodie rattles a can of Red Bull, testing its weight, her chipped thumbnail tapping against the aluminum. A radio wheezes old salsa through tinny speakers, the melody sticky as the air, sinking into the aisles of plastic-wrapped bread and waxy apples.
Behind the counter, the man with the tired eyes scratches at his newspaper with a Bic pen, circling numbers in a way that feels religious. His fingers are dusted with the pale ghosts of cigarette ash, his lips pursed like he’s listening to something only he can hear. He does not look up when I drop a pack of gum onto the counter, but he reaches for it with the slow certainty of someone who has been doing this forever.
A child wails from the back of the store, the sound piercing and wet, slipping between shelves like a runaway. The mother’s voice, warm with exhaustion, hushes him with promises of grape juice, of candy, of tomorrow. He does not believe her.
The door swings open again, bringing a gust of night air and the sharp clang of the metal bell. A man stumbles in, his jacket rain-slick and clinging, his face lined with something more permanent than weather. He does not speak but pulls a crumpled five from his pocket and slides it across the counter, nodding once at the tired man before taking a brown paper bag in return.
Outside, the street breathes steam from the grates, curling up around the ankles of a couple pressed close in the hush of a doorway. A taxi idles at the curb, its meter ticking like a slow, mechanical heartbeat. I unwrap the gum and press it between my teeth, the taste of artificial mint blooming cold against my tongue.
In the distance, a siren wails and disappears into the throat of the city. The man with the cigarette has vanished, leaving only the ghost of smoke curling into the night. I step back out into the damp hush, my reflection dissolving in the black puddles at my feet.
© Ani Eldritch, 2025. All Rights Reserved.
