Flash Memoir

My 7-11 Shift

The fluorescent lights of the 7-11 blinked overhead, making my tired eyes feel like they were dancing. It was the kind of light that stayed with you long after you left. After the graveyard shift, I’d see it even in the daylight, the way your body holds onto certain kinds of exhaustion like an invisible bruise. But it was more than the fatigue and the glaring lights that stayed with me—it was the smell of instant noodles, MSG-rich and savory, curling out of plastic cups, filling the store with that familiar mix of salt and warmth.

After my two years in vocational college, I thought I should find a job immediately. My parents did not like it that I took a job at 7-11, and they were worried about me going out late in the afternoon for my night shift. But I needed this job, not so much for the money but to escape the noisy bantering at home. I thought the night would give me peace and quiet as I constantly felt the pressure of finding a "stable" job.

I liked the rhythm of the store at that hour—the steady hum of the slushie machine, the occasional late-night wanderer looking for snacks, the way the whole place felt like it was holding its breath until dawn.

Then he started showing up.

He wasn’t the first regular. I got used to the faces—the middle-aged man always greeting me with a loud hello when he bought a pack of smokes every night. A couple who always grabbed mixed peanuts and beer. The late night joggers picking up water.

This guy came in at near dawn, around two in the morning, always wearing the same faded green hoodie, the kind with fraying cuffs. He had this sleepy smile, the kind that felt like he was holding a secret only you will get to know.

I noticed him nodding as he walked in, heading to the instant noodles section, and grabbing a cup of spicy noodles. Out of the corner of my eye I'd see him pouring hot water over the noodles, stirring them with chopsticks he kept tucked into his hoodie pocket. He ate at the counter quietly, ritually. Unlike everybody, he didn’t look at his phone or read anything. He just ate, his head bent over the steaming cup, completely focused. I was mesmerized.

I started timing my tasks to coincide with his visits. When he’d walk in, I’d begin wiping down surfaces that didn’t really need it so I could get near him at the counter. One night, he caught me looking. I could feel my cheeks flush, I turned to stocking candy and fumbled with a pack of gum.

He picked the pack I dropped. I mumbled 'thanks' and pretended indifference.

He went back to slurping what was left of his noodles. By the end of my shift, I’d dig through the store's stash of almost-expired spicy noodles, grab a cup, and settle down to eat it while waiting for sunrise. The spicy taste of MSG became my comfort. The noodles weren’t fancy or nutritious, but they were real in a way few things were at that hour. They were there when nothing else was, offering warmth and comfort.

Him and his noodles became a habit. Over the next few weeks, we fell into a kind of rhythm. He’d come in, and we’d chat about small things—the weather, his college classes, my weird regulars. He’d joke about my clumsiness. I’d listen to him, fascinated, even when he merely hummed a tune while eating. His presence became the high point of my shift, the spark that kept me awake during those long, quiet hours.

One night, just as I was starting to feel like our midnight noodles and scattered conversations were becoming something real, he surprised me. He held out a cup of ramen to me, a different flavor—chicken, instead of the usual spicy beef.

“Thought you might want to switch it up,” he said, that same easy smile in his eyes.

I took it, feeling a strange little flip in my heart. Was it the MSG or was it the way he looked at me?

“Thanks.”

As I poured the hot water into my cup, I realized that I wanted him to stay beside me like we were the only two people in the world. I imagined him and me marveling at the the strange beauty of this late-night ritual. Two strangers sharing the silence, exchanging small kindnesses under the harsh light, confiding secrets, stretching the night with familiar humming. We didn’t need anything fancy. It was enough to sit together, unhurried and open ended.

But one night, he didn't show up. And he was still gone the night after that. My shift stretched longer than ever. Days turned into weeks, and every time the door chimed, I looked up, hoping it was him. But he stopped coming.

Maybe he’d found a better routine than lingering in a 7-11 at two in the morning, eating noodles with a girl who barely kept her hands from shaking when he was near. Part of me hoped he missed it too—the salty comfort of instant noodles, the shared solitude of a store lit up like a city in the middle of the night.

I left 7-11 and moved on to what may family calls a real job. I discovered new people and routines to fill my life. But sometimes, when the world feels too big and complicated, I crave for a cup of MSG-laden noodles. I’ll sit in a convenience store, eat slowly, letting the salt and spice remind me of those late nights when I cracked open. In those hours of escape, I felt awake and alive in a world that was usually fast asleep.(Rowena Magsino)

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