There is a break in his routine.
No cinnamon roll. No coffee, black - no sugar.
He has stocked up his fridge, though. There is butter. Lager. Stale bread.
Blueberry jam.
But he finds himself humming to the chorus of the song she enjoys. You don't even know her name, his insides mock. He thinks he is matching the baritone of its singer. Matching its rhythm. Matching a scene in his head of a lonely man, in a lonely kitchen, stale bread in the toaster and blueberry jam as company.
I wanna hurry home to you
Put on a slow, dumb show for you and crack you up
Does it render him weak to crave to come home, he wonders. To have some sort of certainty. Develop a taste for a favourite meal. A good place for coffee. Be able to remember the tune of a song stuck in his head.
For a long time, Alejandro Gillick, a man painted by his anguish, deserved none of these things. No semblance of normalcy. No cradle for comfort. Nothing, before he extinguishes the burning of his raging fury.
Multiple bullets buried with Alarcon. A couple more, he is sure, has been buried with Reyes.
The thirst of his vengeance only unfurls, he realises, but will never be quenched.
So when he gets into a routine - cinnamon roll, coffee, black - no sugar. People running, cycling, living - he finds his rage quietly dissipate.
It doesn't disappear - never as a whole. Only muted, much like the song she enjoys in the middle of a bustling bakery, for every day that it plays quiet in the background - memorised.
But it is her voice - sweet, sticky, thick as honey - that melts through the agony of his memories.
His toaster dings, the stale bread is ready. His jam is on the table. He spreads it, for a moment losing himself to the voice of a good man preparing breakfast for his daughter - the voice that informs his wife that he has to travel for a little while, "Two, maybe three nights in Bogota."
She smiles. Like honey. Like wine. "Just come home to me," She says, and he knows she is being kind, "Come home to us." She kisses the dent in the middle of his lips, wipes a gentle finger over it.
He isn't sure if he'd conjured that memory just so it could provide a semblance of comfort.
The futility of aching to have someone who wants to come home to him.
/
There are eyes on him.
He clicks the plastic lighter twice, finding a flame to warm his worn out soul. It is late again, just like the last time. Only now, it is intentional.
Inhale.
The bell chimes.
She looks up, smiles, acts as if she hadn't seen him through the window that stares out into the cobbled street. Approaches him with apprehension, "I thought I'd scared you off."
He shakes his head, chuckles warmly, much like the good man preparing breakfast for his daughter.
Her voice is sweet, and thick, and honey to his night.
"It'll take a lot more to scare me."