Corner Shop Romance
"His family runs the corner shop where she buys her groceries. He's the son who works night shifts, always there when she stops by after work. Between the milk and the bread, they build something unexpected."
Every night at 11 PM, I need milk.
Not because I drink that much milk. Because the corner shop on my street has a man behind the counter who makes me forget what I came for.
"Just milk again?"
"I drink a lot of tea."
"Every night at 11 PM?"
"I'm consistent."
His name is Mahad.
Family business, he explains. His parents during the day, him at night. Going on three generations now.
"Don't you want something more?" I ask in week two.
"This is something." He gestures around the small shop. "This is everything for people who need bread at midnight or medicine at 2 AM. We're the last line."
"The last line of what?"
"Of community." He smiles. "Of being there."
I start buying more than milk.
Bread I don't need. Snacks I'll never eat. Anything to stand at his counter a little longer.
"You're here every night," he observes.
"I have insomnia."
"You have something." He leans on the counter. "But I don't think it's insomnia."
"Can I walk you home?"
He says it one night after closing. The streets are quiet, just us and the streetlights.
"You don't know where I live."
"You've been buying milk here for six weeks. I know you're somewhere close."
"That's observant."
"That's interest." He steps from behind the counter. "I close up in five minutes. If you want company."
He walks me home.
All three blocks. Standing at my door like a teenager, neither of us wanting to end this.
"I should go," he says.
"Should you?"
"The shop opens at 6 AM."
"That's seven hours away."
He kisses me under the streetlight.
He comes upstairs.
The shop stays closed late the next morning. His parents wonder. Neither of us cares.
"Mahad—"
"I've wanted this since you first asked for milk."
"That's romantic—"
"That's honest." He pushes into me. "You're the best customer I've ever had."
We become the corner shop couple.
I help with inventory sometimes. He walks me home every night. The community watches and approves.
"Marry him," his mother says one day.
"We've been dating three months."
"Three months of every night." She shrugs. "That's more than most couples get in years."
He proposes in the shop.
After hours, with the lights off and the CLOSED sign up.
"This is where I fell in love with you," he says. "Seems right."
"Over the milk?"
"Over everything." He opens the ring box. "Be my partner in everything. Shop included."
"I don't know anything about retail."
"You know about community. About being there." He smiles. "That's all that matters."
I say yes.
And the corner shop gains a new family member.