Sherwood / my boss is a massive cockblock

I used to work in a small, family-run establishment that sold overpriced Malaysian cuisine to mostly European customers who, at some point, had either visited or lived or worked in Malaysia before. Needless to say, their target market was neither particularly robust nor diverse, but it was enough to keep the business afloat, which was good enough for them I guess. The Madam was a staunch advocate of Malaysian culture and ran the kitchen with all the brusque authority and expertise of a middle-aged south-east asian woman, while her husband, British down to his bones, ran the front of house operations. He was a staunch advocate of small talk and would engage in it as often as possible, eventually petering out in muttered conclusions like, 'Well, yes. That's life, I suppose'.

On the way to work, I would dally along the streets examining the neighbouring shops that populated the vicinity, fascinated by the vintage hipster stores selling vintage hipster clothing at exorbitant prices and the arthouse cinema that only showed movies that I'd never heard of and their neon cafe that no doubt sold similarly exorbitant coffees. These small businesses found their niche huddled up against each other; I wouldn't say they flourished - but they seemed to spring forth in great numbers and shared a tenacious quality, like a persistent patch of mold or a beggar by the side of the road.

I remember walking back to the bus stop in the late December afternoons amid hordes of city folk, wonderfully unique in every possible way, of different ages and agendas, walking at different speeds and in all different directions; I would bathe in their flow, basking in the chaos of the day, surrounded by Brownian motion. Each day I would watch the Christmas market take shape in the twilight as the wintry air danced between my fingers, licking at dry skin with its icy tongue, wearing down the fragile fibres with its frigid vapour. And then I would sigh to the orange sunset on the bus ride home, watching the silhouettes and lights roll past like credits at the end of a film.