My bean supplier stopped making eye contact.
Ray had been delivering to Treeline since opening day — a quiet man from a roasting collective in RiNo who drove a van with bad brakes and always carried the bags up the stairs himself because he knew the freight elevator was unreliable. He tipped the bags onto my counter every week, took his check, asked about the grind, and left. Simple. Professional. The kind of transaction that held the small-business world together.
This morning he set the bags down without speaking. Wouldn't look at me. His hands were fine — no bruises, no shaking. But his eyes were somewhere else. The somewhere else of a man who'd been told something he didn't want to know.
"Ray. What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just tired."
"You're not tired. You haven't looked at me since you walked in."
He straightened. Looked at the counter. Looked at the door. Looked everywhere except at me.
