The supermarket's automatic doors (do not) slide open at 2 AM for no one in particular.
I count empty shopping carts: one for each failed first date, one for each unanswered text, seventeen in total since October.
The night manager (which does not exist) counts bottles, writes numbers in columns that mean nothing to anyone except the corporate office where everything reduces to profit and loss.
Some nights I drive past your house accidentally on purpose, counting bicycles in the driveway, while my own storage holds only winter tires and questions about statute of limitations on guilt.
The cashier's monitor (it's off) blinks error codes in red. I pretend to understand the mathematics of fair trade: your happiness for mine, plus interest accumulated over five years of insomnia.