Places like this.
I nodded, lifting the pot, and that’s when my wrist betrayed me, a sharp pulse of pain running up my arm, causing the pot to tilt just enough that a few drops slipped past the rim and landed on the strap of that bag.
Three drops. No more.
The reaction, however, was biblical.
The woman shrieked, pushing back from the table so hard the glasses rattled, her face twisting as if I’d stabbed her instead of spilled coffee. “Are you insane?” she screamed. “Do you know what you just did?”
“I’m so sorry,” I said immediately, reaching for the towel at my waist, heart racing. “It’s just a little coffee, it’ll wipe right off—”
The man stood up.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t hesitate. He simply raised his hand and slapped me across the face with such force that my glasses flew off, skidding across the floor, the sound echoing through the diner louder than the thunder outside.
For a moment, everything froze.
My cheek burned, my vision blurred, and humiliation washed over me in a way pain never could, because pain fades but shame settles in your bones if you let it.
