Late

He came to work late everyday. Every single one. From his very first day – late. And late everyday after that. No story. No excuses. Just not there. Gone. Nobody to serve the customers who wandered by Joe’s butcher, who would look at the sausages and sirloins, rump roasts, covered in the refrigerated cases. And after peering over the counter, just to double check, and indeed finding no one there they would shrug their shoulders. Say “I guess it’s closed?” To their companions in Greek, and danish, and Hungarian, and of course German. A half hour later, he would hop off the bus, recently shaven, hair slicked back, freshly showered, a venti cup of dark roast in hand, ready to start his day.