One of the cashiers, Kendall, a lanky kid with short twists and a permanently bored expression, was tapping his phone under the counter while the other, a girl named Marina, chewed gum so loudly he could hear it over the country music playing through the speakers.
“Next,” Marina said without looking up.
Darius stepped forward. “Can I get the pulled pork sandwich and a side of baked beans, please?”
Still not making eye contact, she tapped on the screen. “That it?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He paid in cash—$14.87, including tax—and stepped to the side to wait for his order.
That’s when he heard it.
“You see him?” Kendall said, smirking as he slid his phone into his pocket. “Another one of those walk-ins. Probably off Peachtree.”
Marina laughed. “Bet he don’t even tip. They never do. That’s what happens when you start letting just anybody in here. Ever since they hired from that shelter program or whatever, it’s been going downhill fast.”
Darius blinked.
“They say the owner’s some rich dude. Black guy, too,” she went on. “But he never comes around. Probably sitting in Buckhead sipping green juice or something. Meanwhile, we in here doing everything.”
Kendall chuckled. “Bet he don’t even know half the people he hired.”
Darius stood perfectly still. His sandwich was probably already being made in the back—Reggie on the grill, moving fast like always—but he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe for a second.
They didn’t recognize him.
Not a flicker of familiarity. Not one pause where somebody squinted and thought, wait, I’ve seen that jawline somewhere. Nothing. He was just another brother in a hoodie, invisible in plain sight.
He should have been angry. He was angry.w
But under that heat was something colder. Something deeper.
Disappointment.
