His voice dropped. Not to a whisper, but to the kind of low that dares you to say one more word. "Maybe those locations run things their way. Here, that's what it costs. You want the food or not?" A woman in the booth behind Henry glanced over.
Her fork froze halfway to her mouth. She looked away quickly, pretending she hadn't heard. Henry held Craig's gaze for two full seconds, then nodded once. "I'll take the food." Craig made change from the 20. He didn't count it out.
He shoved the coins across the counter with the back of his hand. Two quarters and a penny rolled off the edge, hit the tile floor, and spun in small circles before going flat. Craig looked down at the coins on the floor, then back up at Henry. His mouth curled into a lazy smirk. "Oops." Brenda pressed her hand over her mouth.
A muffled laugh slipped through her fingers. Henry bent down without a word, picked up the coins one by one, and slid them into his pocket. Then he walked to a booth near the kitchen pass-through window and sat down quietly. Under the table, he texted Angela. "Fake surcharge on my order. $3.50. Not in our system. Keep recording." Angela replied in 4 seconds.
"Confirmed. Legal is watching the feed live." The diner hummed around him. Forks scraped against ceramic plates. Low conversations blended with the hiss of the grill through the kitchen window. Motown drifted from the jukebox.
Marvin Gaye, something slow and smooth. The smell of melting butter, crisping hash browns, and fresh coffee swirled together in the warm air. Henry folded his hands on the table and waited. 7 minutes later, the white couple who ordered after him received their plates. Brenda carried both out with care, set them down gently, and smiled wide.
"Y'all enjoy now. Let me know if you need anything." Their eggs were golden and steaming. Toast thick-cut, slick with butter. Grits piled high with a glossy pat of butter melting into the center. Henry was still waiting.
Five more minutes, 12 total. Brenda finally brought his plate over. One hand carrying it, the other resting on her hip. She dropped it on the table with a thud that rattled the silverware. No words.
She turned and walked away without looking back. Henry looked down at his plate. The eggs were overcooked. Dry, rubbery. Edges browning like they had been sitting forgotten.
The toast was two heel-end slices. The hard ends nobody wants. Barely warmed through. The grits were a thin smear at the bottom of the bowl. Not enough to fill a single spoon.
Two booths over, a white man his age was eating the same platter. Fluffy eggs flecked with pepper. Golden buttered toast. A full steaming bowl of grits. It was the same menu, the same kitchen, the same cook, and the same price, but a completely different plate.
Through the pass-through window, Lorraine Moore saw his food leave the counter. Her spatula stopped mid-flip. She had cooked that order herself. Eggs scrambled soft. Bread sliced from the center of the loaf.