There’s a strange kind of peace that settles in a coffee shop after the last customer leaves. The sun starts dipping behind the Dallas skyline, the music softens, and for the first time all day, the espresso machine isn’t hissing like a dragon in heat.
I usually take the closing shifts. Most baristas hate them, but I don’t mind. There’s something meditative about scrubbing down counters, emptying the milk pitchers, wiping the syrup pumps until they’re no longer sticky. The chaos of the day slowly gives way to calm—like the shop is exhaling.
After the last pickup order, we flip the sign to “Closed” and bolt the door, though people still try to come in. Every. Single. Night. One guy even knocked for five minutes straight and asked, “You got anything left?” I had to gently explain that this isn’t a gas station and caffeine isn’t a human right after 8:00 p.m.
We clean in silence or with low music—usually some moody indie band or jazz if my coworker Gabe is on aux. There’s an art to closing. You have to do it right or tomorrow’s opener will hate you. I’ve been on both ends of that deal. Leave one dirty milk wand or don’t rinse out the cold brew keg, and you’re cursed for life.
But we also laugh a lot during close. It’s when the weird stories come out. Like the time someone tried to pay with Chuck E. Cheese tokens. Or the woman who brought her pet snake in a tote bag. Or the guy who asked if we could “just heat up the beans” instead of brewing them.
Sometimes, when everything’s clean and the music’s still playing, I’ll linger a bit. Sip the last lukewarm coffee of the day, stare out the window, and think. About nothing in particular. Just breathing in that familiar scent of espresso and bleach.
Being a barista isn’t glamorous. But there’s beauty in the quiet parts—after the crowd is gone, when it’s just you, the hum of the fridge, and a shop that finally gets to rest.
