Closing time at a Kovan coffeeshop

The uncle starts wiping the counter at 9:40 pm whether or not you are still eating. I respect the schedule even when my kopi is half finished. Kovan at closing smells like dishwater and sweet syrup — honest smells. The fluorescent light makes everyone look slightly tired, which is accurate. I sit on the end stool because it has a view of the road and the MRT exit, and I like watching people decide whether to run for the train. Tonight a couple argued quietly about whether to share a taxi or walk. The uncle cleared their plates without comment. I wrote a paragraph in my phone about the way he never asks if you are done — he just knows. That is a skill. Outside, the five-foot way was drying after an earlier shower. A bus hissed to a stop. I stayed until the uncle switched off the sign and nodded me out like a regular, which I am not, but he makes me feel like one anyway.

I had ordered teh si kosong and a plain toast I did not finish. The toast went into a tissue for tomorrow because wasting food feels worse than wasting time at a closing stall. Two cleaners stacked chairs with the efficiency of people who have done it a thousand nights — metal legs scraping softly, not complaining, just finishing.

Walking back toward Hougang that night, the MRT was still running and the stairwell was quiet. I typed the uncle's nod into my phone before I forgot it — not quite a smile, not quite dismissal. Small mercies at closing time.