At the End of the Day

I was at the mall at the end of the day. Now I would never want any chronicle of mine to begin in this way, but follow me for a moment, this might get interesting.

It was about the Last Minute, meaning there were important things to be done: sales to be capitalized upon, lotteries to play and milk to buy. Having spent a portion of my precious youthful summertime as a cashier, I am well aware that the Last Minute is of the utmost importance. Food always tastes better when purchased at the Last Minute and an essay flows with undercurrents of brilliance when composed at the Last Minute.

At this infamous moment, the mall of all places is full of quiet ideals. There are no lines, the cashier looks up just as I walk up to the check-out. She looked relieved and I don't blame her. Closing early is not an option, so anything is a welcome break in the monotony.
A few stragglers wander silently down the amber-tinted corridor, since only one store is open at the Last Minute I cannot help wondering what they are looking for. Two men sit at the empty food court, not even their conversation breaks the perfection of closing time. There are no bawling children despite the presence of mother and stroller.

Normally I hate being present at the Last Minute because I was always through being there was an inconvenience to the world. But a mall is the Temple of Last Call.

When was the last time you ever stayed anywhere until closing? It's a weird feeling to have the set come down around you before you've finishing playing. When you walk away from the place you closed out, do you feel that if you turned back to have a look, there would just be a curtain and an emptry theater?