There are signs of what happened. Where bleach met perpetually dirty concrete. Candles and flowers. A photo with a hand-written note in Spanish.
It had been an unmemorable weekend. Hooking up with a hottie. Playing frisbee in the park. Sunday brought a barbecue with old friends followed by a couple of beers at the Eagle. Leaving there relatively early despite it being a holiday weekend.
The subway ride home was quiet. No one cute on the train. The arrival to my own subway stop brought visual clues. Four police officers with radios sounding. Drunken commuters, not allowed on the Manhattan bound train. Someone lying on the floor.
My thoughts were that it was a drunk. Passed out on the subway floor. With the number of police, perhaps the person was injured.
Then, rounding a corner the puddle of blood was visible. Not a puddle though, a pool. A pool of blood so large and still. Reflecting the lights and the shapes an colors of the nearby wall. Shaken, I turned around. Took a less convenient exit.
The next day brought news trucks. It became obvious that there had not been an accident. The neighborhood gossips told me before the news. The victim had been shot in the head.
Taking the picture brings feelings of dirtyness and inappropriateness in the Tuesday morning post-holiday rush. Most commuters had not read or seen the news. There is a pause to see the picture. Read the note. Notice the concrete floor is a brighter shade of grey.
