The last glass was dried and put away. I stepped into the walk-in cooler and pulled the handle shut behind me.
The compressor kicked on, a low hum that filled the dark. Earlier I had shoveled the driveway with the snow shovel from the rented garage. The one with the blade chipped where I hit the curb.
I knew I'd feel jetlagged at five in the morning, even though I hadn't left the time zone. Just the weight of the night.
My hands still ached from playing the Bach fugue at the funeral that morning. The wrong notes I recovered from. The way my sister held the hymnbook upside down.
I counted the milk crates stacked against the wall. Eight of them. Cheddar, parmesan, half gallons of buttermilk. Lined up like pews.
These are the thoughts that only arrive after midnight. When the sanctuary is locked and the restaurant is clean and the only light is the bare bulb in the cooler.
I let the hum fill my ears until the timer clicked and the compressor cut off. Then I opened the door, turned off the light, and locked up.
Tomorrow I'd play the prelude at ten. But tonight I was just a woman who needed to count milk crates under a flickering bulb.