“Remove these place settings.”

Michael felt his eyes widen, but he lowered his head in silent deference. Mister Cole was Boss. And what Boss said, went, kind or not, right or not.

There will be no seating of the couple who just walked in, dressed in their no-doubt-best, stars glowing in their eyes for each other.

Wrong skin.

“We are booked. Perhaps another place.” Mister Cole’s false-polite voice. Reserved for any he thought strayed out of their lane.

The woman stared pointedly at the empty table, at Michael’s dish-laden hands.

“Pity,” she said.

Shame burned Michael’s cheeks. The plates turned lead.

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Sandra Crook