“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, steady and trembling all at once. “I just need to finish mopping this section. It’ll only take a moment.”
She edged back, gripping the mop. “I can move if—”
He kicked the bucket. Not a tap. A kick. Water slapped across the marble and soaked her cuffs. She flinched.
“Now look what you made me do,” he said. “Clean it up. Isn’t that your job?”
Silence took the room by the throat. It was the kind of silence where everyone decides to be furniture.
I’m a teacher. Two decades with first graders means I can smell a bully through drywall. Before I’d decided to move, I was already moving.
“Excuse me,” I said, stepping between them, “that was completely out of line.”
He turned slowly, disbelief curdling into disdain. “I’m sorry, what?”
“She didn’t do anything wrong. You could have walked around.”
“No,” I said, folding my arms, “but I know exactly what kind of person you are.”
A couple of quiet laughs leaked from the counter. Color climbed his neck. “This is none of your business.”
“It became my business the second you kicked her bucket like a toddler throwing a tantrum.”
For a heartbeat I thought he’d yell. He didn’t. He snatched up his briefcase, muttered “unbelievable,” and slammed out into the night.
The café exhaled. Conversations crept back. The woman stayed frozen, eyes on the spreading puddle. I grabbed napkins, crouched, and mopped alongside her.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“You shouldn’t have said anything,” she murmured. Kind blue eyes, the kind that have watched a lot and resented very little. “People like that don’t change.”
“You’re going to get yourself in trouble one day.” A tiny smile tilted her mouth.
“Probably,” I said. “I sleep fine.”
When the floor was dry, I ordered a little pastry box and pressed it into her hands. “For later. Rough days deserve sugar.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
She studied my face the way teachers do, like they’re reading a paragraph you don’t know you wrote. “You remind me of a student I had a long time ago. Always standing up for the little guy.”
“Then your lessons stuck.”
I didn’t think about it again—until morning.
The intercom crackled during homeroom. “Erin, please report to Principal Bennett’s office.”
Every misstep I’d ever made sprinted through my brain. Had someone filmed last night? Was Suit-and-Tie a parent? Was I about to be scolded for “causing a scene in public”?
The secretary smiled and waved me in—small mercy. Principal Bennett stood behind his desk, kind eyes, graying hair, the sort of principal who remembers costume day and cafeteria staff birthdays.
“Erin,” he said, gesturing to the chair, “thanks for coming. Were you at Willow & Co. last night?” Continue reading…
