Before the first customer

A grocer in Dammam lifts his shutter a little before seven, and for a minute the shop is exactly as clean as he left it.

Yesterday's mess is gone. The boxes that were left in the aisle have been put away. The awkward customer is a memory. Whatever went wrong is no longer in the room. This is the gift of a morning: the day arrives smooth and untouched, as if nothing has happened yet.

What he does next is small. He can wipe down the fridge doors first, or sit with his tea and his phone. He can put the fresh bread at the front where the early buyers will see it, or leave it in the crate by the counter. He can greet the first regular by name, or nod without looking up.

None of these choices seems to matter much. But each one tilts the next. Clean fridges make him notice the tins that need facing. The bread at the front draws the woman who always buys it, and she mentions that the yoghurt ran out yesterday, so he orders more. The day follows the line drawn by its first hour.

Then the shutter comes down at night, and in the morning the slate is wiped again. Another fresh start, offered without asking.

The thing is, the fresh starts are not really independent. A grocer who wipes the fridges first on one morning tends to do it the next, and the one after. Habits are just first moves repeated until they stop feeling like choices.

Every morning is new. Enough mornings in the same order are not. They become the shop.