Open, but not there

Most cities have one. In Alexandria it might be a seafood place on the corniche, open for decades and still open. The doors are unlocked, the lights are on, the fish sits on ice by the entrance.

But something went out of it a while ago. The ice is half water by evening. The waiter brings the menu and leaves before you can ask anything. The tablecloths are clean enough. The bread is from yesterday. Nobody is rude, and nobody is trying either.

A guest can feel that within a minute of sitting down. Not a disaster, just a place that has stopped caring and kept its hours.

That is sadder than closing. A place that closes ends something honestly. The people in it get their evenings back for something they care about, and the regulars find somewhere new and remember the old one at its best.

A place that gives up but stays open wastes all of that. The name, the room, the people working there, the guests who keep half-hoping it will come back to itself. Each evening is spent on something that nobody involved believes in any more.

The same holds for any commitment, at a table or anywhere else. Leaving is a choice, and often a good one, because it hands tomorrow back to you. Staying while no longer meaning it hands nothing back to anyone.

Mean it or let it go. Half-open is the worst place to stand.