The Night Pharmacist – Part 1: Night Window

"The same tin of cough sweets," said Pol.

"Yes," said Samir.

"You don't have a cough."

"No."

"You never have a cough."

"No." Samir, at the little steel window of the all-night pharmacy, grinned sheepishly. "It's a very good sweet."

Pol, behind the glass, in a white coat and a dark green cardigan, tried not to laugh. He was thirty-one, a night pharmacist, slim and soft-spoken, with round glasses and curly black hair. For six years he had worked the hatch from midnight to dawn, selling aspirin, plasters and sympathy to a stream of the sleepless: new parents, bartenders, nurses, insomniacs. The street outside was empty and orange under the lamps.

Samir was thirty-four, a baker, broad-shouldered, with flour in the creases of his hands, a dark beard and the sleepy warmth of a man who got up at three. He came by every Tuesday on the way to the bakery. He always bought the same tin. He always stayed to talk.

"How's the bread?" said Pol.

"Rising."

"It's always rising."

"That's what it does." Samir leaned on the ledge. "How's the night?"

"Quiet. A woman wanted plasters for a blister. A man wanted to know if aspirin cures love."

"Does it?"

"I said no."

"What would?"

"A conversation," said Pol. "Maybe a sweet."

Samir laughed, deep and unhurried. A moth fluttered round the lamp. In the empty street, a cat trotted past. Pol passed him the tin through the hatch, and their fingers touched.

"Can I ask you something?" said Samir.

"Yes."

"What time do you finish?"

"Six."

"The bakery opens at six."

"I could come."

"Green?" said Samir, a pharmacy cross, a light.

"Green," said Pol, with a shy smile. "Very green. Save me a roll."

Continue the story: Part 2 – First Bread.