Pho at Midnight

After a twelve-hour shift at the warehouse, my coworker Bao and I stop at the same noodle shop on Fourth Street. It's open until two. The owner's daughter does her homework at the corner table, and the TV plays soap operas with the sound off.

We don't talk much. We just order two large bowls and let the steam fog our glasses. The broth tastes like star anise and patience. Bao always gives me his lime wedges because he says citrus "confuses the soup."

There's something holy about eating something warm when the rest of the city is asleep. My back hurts, my feet hurt, and for twenty minutes none of that matters.

The other night the owner brought us two little cups of sweet iced coffee on the house. "For the night people," she said. I've worked a lot of jobs. That's the first time I've felt like the night people were a club worth belonging to.