Richard went to the bodega every single day. It was much a part of his day as his morning shower or his evening glass of bourbon. Wake up, drink coffee, dress, stop at the bodega for a second coffee and a paper on the way to his train into the city. Off the train, stop at the bodega for a beer for the walk, sometimes a snack if he hadn’t had a decent lunch before home for the evening. Day in. Day out. Home, bodega, train. Train, bodega, home.

Along with the bodega came Rayed, the owner. Richard knew his name only because of the name tag he wore, he doubted it had come up in the five years of daily visits. Richard never missed a day at the bodega. He had not been home for the holidays since his father died ten years ago, and he seemed to be allergic to relaxing so vacations had never been part of the plan, even if his finance career had allowed the time. Rayed also never missed a day at the bodega - holidays, weekends, storms.

The door to his apartment slammed shut of its own accord behind him. Richard made sure to jiggle the doorknob no less than three times to ensure it was securely locked. Home. He turned down the street - right, left, left, straight down the hill to the train station. Always the same. After his first left, he walks through the familiar door with the same jangle as he entered. Bodega. Rayed was behind the counter as always. Richard made his way to the back for his coffee, filling up his travel mug from home to save ten cents and be sure the lid wouldn’t leak down his freshly pressed white Brooks Brothers shirt. He grabbed a paper on his way to the counter, and for the first time this morning, actually looked at Rayed. He looked ashen and pale, more tired than usual. Richard had seen Rayed look unwell before, to be sure. The man never missed a day, though, and the shop was always well stocked with papers, coffee and beer. Richard just hoped whatever it was wasn’t too contagious. He’d hate to be under the weather for his big presentation next week.

Rayed rung up the coffee and the paper. As he handed Richard his change with one hand, he held out the other to shake, saying pleasantly, “Have a great day, sir.” Richard hesitated, accepted the change, acting like the outreached hand just didn’t exist. “You too, man,” he mumbled as he exited as quickly as he could. Second left. Down the hill. Train.

Richard’s any at work passed like any other - e-mails, meetings, meetings, e-mails, calls, e-mails, meetings, meetings that could have been e-mails. Finally, sixteen minutes past six, Richard decided to call it quits for the day. He logged off of his accounts, got his coat and took the elevator down to the lobby, went through the revolving door and kept walking to the right down the street. Right, right, left, down the stairs to the station. Train.

His commute out of the city always felt longer than his commute into the city. He supposed the trip home likely always did, no matter what form it took. Finally, the train pulled into the station and he exited to the platform, up the stairs, out the turnstile, up the hill, first right. Bodega.

Richard was so startled by the brightness of the flashing lights, he almost fell off the curb. It wasn’t a huge assemblage, two police cars and an ambulance, but on this sleepy street outside of the city, police lights usually just meant a speeding ticket. Richard’s stomach dropped seeing the caution tape across the door of the bodega. His bodega. Everything seemed heavy, but calm - not an active scene, but the aftermath of the wreck. Police officers were milling about, apparently waiting for the EMT’s to finish with whatever catastrophe was inside. There was sign of struggle, blood or accident outside, after all.

Looking around him, Richard tried to find Rayed. He assumed he would be giving a statement to police, but didn’t see him anywhere. Standing next to the fence separating the bodega from the alley, he noticed an elderly woman he recognized from the grocery store.

“Excuse me,” he started, surprised at himself for approaching a stranger for something that was truly none of his business, “Have you seen Rayed? Did he leave with some officers to give a statement at the station? What happened, anyway?”

The woman shifted her purse from one side to the other, clearly uncomfortable. “No, honey, Rayed is still inside,” she said softly, “He had a heart attack. Cheryl who I play bridge with was in getting milk when he just collapsed! Can you imagine? Her Jimmy called 911 when she came running outside, but I overheard one of the officers saying that they were too late. Poor man.”

Richard thanked her and wordlessly took the next right and then a left. Home.

He should have shaken the man’s hand.