He chose his downtown branch—the one he opened first, where his mother used to help cook pies. As he crossed the street, he felt the buzz of cars and early-morning walkers. The smell of sizzling bacon drifted into the air. His heart beat faster.
Inside the diner, the familiar red booths and checkered floor greeted him. It hadn’t changed much. But the faces had.
Behind the counter stood two cashiers. One was a skinny young woman in a pink apron, chewing gum loudly and tapping on her phone. The other was older, heavier, with tired eyes and a name tag that read “Denise.” Neither noticed him walk in.
He stood patiently for about thirty seconds. No greeting. No “Hello, welcome!” Nothing.
“Next!” Denise finally barked, not even looking up.
Michael stepped forward. “Good morning,” he said, trying to hide his voice.
Denise gave him a once-over, her eyes sliding over his wrinkled hoodie and worn shoes. “Uh-huh. What do you want?”
“I’ll take a breakfast sandwich. Bacon, egg, cheese. And a black coffee, please.”
Denise sighed dramatically, tapped a few buttons on the screen, and muttered, “Seven-fifty.”
He pulled a crumpled ten-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to her. She snatched it and slapped the change on the counter without a word.
Michael sat down at a corner booth, sipping his coffee and observing. The place was busy, but the staff looked bored, even annoyed. A woman with two toddlers had to repeat her order three times. An elderly man who asked about a senior discount was waved off rudely. One worker dropped a tray and cursed loud enough for children to hear.
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