the shop on main street

He remembers orders. Every single one. The woman who comes in every Thursday for a pound of coffee beans. The man who always buys a pack of Marlboros. But names. Faces. They slip his mind. He's tried to keep a notebook. To write down names and orders. But it's hard to keep track. People move away. New faces appear. He's been running the shop for years. Decades. And still. He struggles. To put names to faces. To remember. He serves a couple. Coffee and toast. They sit at a small table by the window. Talking in hushed tones. He watches them. Trying to place them. But they're just two more faces. In a long line of faces. He's seen so many. And yet. They all start to blur. Together.