Grits filled to the brim. What sat on that table was not what she made. She looked toward the front. Craig was leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, watching Henry with a lazy knowing grin. Brenda slid behind the register and whispered in Craig's ear.
Craig shook with a short, ugly laugh, like a dog barking once. Henry picked up his fork and cut into the eggs. They were chalky and cold in the center. He chewed once, set the fork down, and pushed the plate forward. He did not complain or wave anyone over.
He simply sat watching the room, cataloging every detail in silence.
Then the front door chimed again. An elderly Black woman stepped inside. She moved slowly, one hand bracing the doorframe for balance. She wore a neatly pressed floral dress and a small hat pinned to the side, the kind women wear to Sunday church, a thin gold chain at her collarbone, purse hanging from the crook of her arm. She walked to the counter with careful, steady steps.
Brenda was wiping the register screen, eyes fixed downward. "Excuse me, dear," the woman said softly. "Could you tell me what the soup of the day is?" Brenda kept wiping. 5 seconds. 10.
15. The woman stood perfectly still, waiting with the patience of someone who had waited like this her entire life. "Excuse me?" she said again, slightly louder. Brenda finally looked up with a long, theatrical sigh, the kind designed to make another person feel like a burden. "Ma'am, can you speak up? I cannot understand a single word you're saying." She had been speaking clearly.
Everyone within 15 feet heard her just fine. "I was just asking about the" Craig cut in from behind without even turning around. "Maybe try the kids' menu, simpler choices for simpler folks." Brenda bit her lower lip. A laugh escaped through her nose, a small, ugly sound. The old woman's fingers tightened on her purse strap.
Her chin dipped slowly toward her chest. Her lips pressed together, not in anger, but in the quiet rehearsed way of someone who learned long ago that certain rooms were not built for people like her. She turned and walked out without ordering. The bell chimed softly behind her. That small sound hung in the air like a sad fading note that nobody wanted to hear.
Nobody called after her. Nobody cared. Henry set his mug down, jaw tight. He pulled out his phone. Angela, tell me you saw that.
Every second. She was a regular? She knew the layout by heart. Been coming here for years. What do you want to do?
Not yet. I need to see everything. He sipped his coffee, lukewarm and bitter. He swallowed it anyway.
Minutes later, Henry walked toward the restroom at the back. The narrow hallway was lined with framed photos of Golden Griddle's early days. The first location, the first staff photo, the first newspaper review mounted behind glass. Frames he had chosen himself for every location across the Southeast. On his way back, the kitchen door was cracked open a few inches.