In the heart of the Deep South, a waitress feeds a black homeless man. When he leaves, she discovers who he really is and screams in terror, knowing full well that her kind act is going to open a can of worms. The diner clock glared at a constant 2:03 a.m. Another graveyard shift; her worn sneakers barely counted as shoes anymore, and her feet already ached.
A fresh pot of coffee sputtered behind her, its bitterness doing nothing to cut the thick haze of old grease. The door creaked open, and the discordant chime sliced through the quiet hum. An elderly black man shuffled inside. His clothes were ragged, and his gaze was fixed on the floor. The overnight regulars—a trucker nursing his fourth refill and a bleary-eyed couple locked in a silent argument—watched his entrance with a mix of disgust and weariness. Whispers rose like steam from overfilled mugs.
Constance approached the man with a practiced smile. She asked him if he wanted to sit at a table or the counter. He simply asked for a cup of black coffee. She poured a mug, and a familiar pang of pity flickered in her chest. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. He was the wrong color in this greasy nowhere, and her gut told her that making a……..Read Full Story Here……………….
