watching the first and last customer of the day walk away kills Vera just a little bit every day. She already knows what to expect from the rest of the morning. It will slowly melt into the afternoon, which will stretch on in unbearable silence until five p.m., when Vera will shuffle slowly from her stool to the front door and flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and for the dozenth time that day, she will ask herself, What is the point?
