Wednesday, 4pm. The shop’s been empty for two weeks now. There hasn’t been a single new visitor, nor have any passerbys even glanced through my dusty window. It might have been lonely if not for the unexpected, yet frequent – and getting more frequent with the passing days – visits from Ronald. He usually comes in without saying a word and takes his spot on the bed made of newspapers and plastic bags I set up each morning for him. I’m not picky when it comes to cleanliness, but I do have my limits. He knows to leave his coat outside the door and crack the stubborn window at least two inches before he takes his seat. These measures are more of a mental fix than a physical alleviation to the unmistakable stench that trails him throughout the city. These visits usually do not consist of much conversation. Occasionally a few words are passed, but for the most part we sit in silence. Silence often means more than small talk. To Ronald, the fresh pieces of bread and cups of juice I give him probably mean more than the silence. I try to light the small oven in the corner of my shop on the days I think he’ll show up. I’m only right about half the time. The oven heats a small portion of the room, most likely only within a one-foot radius.

I suppose Ronald really only visits for the food and, if he’s lucky, the warmth. But I also think he visits for the company, even if the silent awkwardness would scare off most people. I don’t question his motives, nor do I really care to know what they are anyway. I prefer these silent encounters to no encounters at all, especially when no one else has dared to enter my doorway in weeks.