The Confessional of the Corner Store

3 am

There is a holiness to the 3 a.m. dépanneur. The fluorescent light is unforgiving, bleaching the colour from our faces, turning our secrets into mundane transactions. The cashier, a saint of the night shift, has seen it all: the post-party elation, the pre-dawn despair, the shaky hands buying a single, tall can of beer.

This is where love stories are purchased, not proclaimed. A shared box of Tylenol. Two coffees, one with two sugars. A lottery ticket scratched with a loonie, heads bent together over the fleeting dream of a shared future. Two dollars, one ticket, who buys it? The most philosophical question of the night. The answer is a thesis on the state of a heart.

We come here to be anonymous, but end up being seen. Me, in a crumpled suit from a day I’d rather forget. You, in last night’s dress, the scent of smoke and regret still clinging to the fabric. Our eyes meet in the refrigerated aisle, hovering between the orange juice and the cheap white wine. We don’t speak. We don’t have to. We are both members of the same fragile congregation, seeking communion in the form of a stale croissant and a moment of shared, silent understanding in the humming, holy light.