Open Late

I didn’t plan to spend most of my evenings in a kebab shop, but life has a way of narrowing your options until you end up somewhere fluorescent, greasy, and open far too late.

It’s on the corner of a road no one walks down unless something has gone wrong with their evening, or they’ve made a series of confident decisions that have finally caught up with them.

It’s open late, which is important. Things that stay open late are hopeful in a very specific, slightly tragic way. They believe someone will need them. They are usually right.

The shop smells like hot oil, vinegar, charred meat, and regret. Regret is not on the menu, but it’s implied in the font. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly, like they’re trying to remember a better time. The windows are steamed just enough to blur faces into shapes, which is helpful. Faces are distracting. Food is not.

I don’t eat anymore.

This tends to invite follow-up questions, which is deeply rude.

No one ever asks them, of course.

Except once.

A very drunk woman on a girls’ night out stopped dead in front of me, swaying gently like she was negotiating with gravity. She squinted, frowned, and leaned in far too close, peering at my face as if it might blink first.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, with the confidence of someone who had recently decided reality was optional.

“Standing,” I said.

She considered this. Nodded. Then shook her head again, deeply dissatisfied.

“No,” she said. “You’re… loitering.”

“That’s still standing,” I said.

She waved this away. “Why aren’t you eating?”

This felt accusatory.

“I’m not hungry,” I said, which was a lie so old and well-practised it barely registered anymore.

She gasped, offended on my behalf. “Everyone’s hungry in here,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the kebabs, the chips, the general atmosphere of regret.

She leaned closer, lowering her voice to what she clearly believed was a whisper.

“You look… thin.”

I waited for one of her friends to intervene, which they eventually did, hauling her backwards by the sleeve while apologising loudly to the room, the counter, and a laminated poster of a kebab that had seen too much.

“Sorry,” one of them said. “She’s had tequila.”

As they dragged her toward the door, the woman twisted around, eyes suddenly sharp, the alcohol briefly losing its grip.

She looked straight at me.

Properly at me.

“That’s sad,” she said quietly. Then frowned, as if the word itself had surprised her, and added, “You should eat something.”

And then she was gone, the bell ringing cheerfully behind her, as if nothing unusual had happened at all.

I stood there for a long time after that.

Not because I was upset.

Just… thinking about how strange it was that the only person who ever noticed me was too drunk to trust her own judgment, which in fairness had been questionable all evening.

I stand just inside the door, where the mat curls at one corner and the bell doesn’t ring for me. I like it there. From this angle, I can see the whole counter, the rotating meat, the laminated menu with its ambitious photos, and the drinks fridge that hums like it’s keeping a secret.

I know the menu by heart.

I have opinions.

The chips are best after midnight. Before that, they’re rushed and taste like obligation. The kebabs are generous to the point of recklessness. The chilli sauce is not actually that hot, but it enjoys the reputation. The garlic mayo is doing most of the emotional labour, as usual.

I could write a review, if reviews were still something I could leave.

I watch people order. I watch them hesitate, which is my favourite part. There’s a particular pause people do when they’re hungry but pretending they’re not. They’ll scan the board like it’s going to reveal something new, as if the menu has been quietly reinventing itself while they weren’t looking.

It hasn’t.

I could tell you what someone’s going to order within ten seconds of them standing there. Hunger has patterns. Shame does too.

People don’t really want choice when they’re hungry. They want permission.

The lad behind the counter knows this. He has the tired confidence of someone who has seen every version of a bad decision and survived them all. He doesn’t rush anyone. He waits. Eventually, they always order more than they meant to.

A man in a soaked coat orders a large doner, extra chilli, chips, and a can of something neon. He looks like he’s lost an argument with the weather and possibly his own life. When his food arrives, he eats standing up, leaning slightly forward, as if bracing for impact.

He doesn’t look up once.

I remember that feeling. The tunnel vision of hunger. The way the world narrows to salt, heat, and relief.

Relief is the real flavour people chase.

Two students come in, loud with that particular confidence that comes from not being responsible for anything yet. They argue about whether to get one portion of chips or two. They get two. They always do. One of them drops a chip almost immediately and stares at it on the floor like it’s a moral failure.

“Five-second rule,” the other says.

They don’t pick it up.

I don’t blame them. The floor has seen things.

A woman comes in alone. She orders slowly, carefully, like she’s trying not to attract attention. She asks for a box for half of it before she’s even paid. When her food arrives, she eats exactly half, neatly, then closes the lid and exhales, as if she’s just negotiated a ceasefire.

I used to be like that. Saving food for later. Saving good things. Saving myself.

Later is optimistic.

The bell above the door rings for everyone except me. It’s a small thing, but it’s consistent. I stand close sometimes, just to see if it’ll change its mind.

It doesn’t.

The bell has principles.

I can smell everything. This feels deliberate.

The vinegar hits first, sharp and bright, followed by the warmth of the chips. The meat smells different depending on the hour. Earlier, it’s assertive. Later, it softens. There’s comfort in that, I think. Even meat knows when to stop showing off.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly uncharitable, I try to remember the exact taste of things. Chips with too much salt. Burnt bits you pretend you like. Kebab meat soaked through bread until the bread gives up entirely.

I remember perfectly.

That’s the worst part.

People think hunger is about absence.

It isn’t.

It’s about memory.

At ten to two, a drunk man drops half his chips on the counter and groans like he’s lost a loved one.

One chip skids off the edge and lands near my feet.

Perfect. Still steaming. Untouched.

For a moment — just a moment — something in me surges forward, stupid and bright. I step closer, reaching without thinking.

My hand goes straight through it.

Of course it does.

The universe has always been very clear about its boundaries.

The shutters come down at two. Slowly. Reluctantly. The shop doesn’t want to close. It knows what waits outside.

Cold. Quiet. Fewer reasons.

That’s when I notice the window across the road.

Third floor. Always on. Always dim.

There’s a figure there.

They stand back from the glass the way I do. Not hiding. Just… not participating.

We are very good at staying where we are.

Sometimes, when the shop is busy and the street feels briefly less hostile, I imagine a bench in the middle of the road. Nothing fancy. One of those council benches with a small metal plaque no one ever reads.

I imagine us sitting there, the two of us, not talking much. Just watching people come and go, passing judgement where it’s deserved and keeping quiet where it isn’t.

We’d be very good at it.

I imagine us leaning back in unison when someone orders extra chilli with absolute confidence. I imagine a shared look when someone insists they’re “just peckish” and then orders enough food to suggest a long-standing emotional problem.

I imagine us staying there until the street empties and the lights go out, until there’s nothing left to watch but the quiet.

Then the traffic passes straight through the space where the bench would be, and the thought dissolves.

Some places don’t exist for people like us.

When the shop goes dark, the light across the way stays on.

So do I.

I don’t think ghost.

I think someone like me.

We don’t wave.

We don’t move.

We watch.

Hunger, it turns out, doesn’t end when you do.

It just learns to wait.

And judge.