The fat ash drops off Domenic’s cigar as, from the window, he watches the two black men about to cross paths.
“There.”
Across the table, Thomas shakes his head.
“It hasn’t been long enough.”
Through a billowy puff, Domenic replies, “Six months is plenty.”
On the corner, a lanky, dark-skinned black man readjusts his off-the-rack suit, waiting for the light. Across the street, a lighter-skinned black man, in a Bears t-shirt, chats at a newsstand.
A pretty server hands Thomas a highball. “Glenmorangie?”
He sips. “No chance. They were friends in the mailroom for years.”
Domenic sneers, putting on a fake voice, “Trust me son, who you associate with matters. You should consider this if you want to move up here.”
The two chuckle, turning to watch the black men reach one another.
“Marlboro Lights, Fantasy Football Weekly.” The attendant hands them to the lighter man, who takes them and, seeing the darker man arrive, smiles broadly. He considers a warm hug, but refrains, seeing his smile not reciprocated.
Disappointed, he sighs but asks, “How’s things in logistics?”
The darker man squirms, picks a newspaper and replies half-heartedly, “Good. Busy. You know.”
“The other day, Maritta was talkin’ about when y’all broke the sorter. She misses you.”
The fond memory hits the darker man and he turns to engage, but his eyes catch the building across the street and he reconsiders, letting his face go cold.
“Just the Times and a bag of peanuts, please.”
Resentment envelops the lighter man. Stuffing the cigarettes in his pocket, he snorts back, “Yeah, okay. It’s like that now.”
He bumps the darker man with his shoulder, walking away in a huff.
Regret fills the darker man’s face as he pays and takes his change.
He lingers at the crosswalk, watching his friend enter ahead, and adjusts his cheap suit in a plea for reassurance.
Domenic laughs.
“Unbelievable,” Thomas responds.
“Never underestimate the power of shame,” Domenic says with pride, rising and slapping his friend on the shoulder. “That means Morton’s is on you tonight!”