The Tone

I went back today

and they were working,

same apron,

same hands,

and I felt it

all over again—

the moment

I said something

cold.

It was just a tone.

Just the way my words

landed

short

and clipped,

like I was angry

at them

for being there,

for asking,

for existing

in the path

of my bad morning.

They looked down.

That's what I remember.

The eyes dropping

to the register,

to the drawer,

to anywhere

but at me.

I've been thinking about it.

A week.

Just that one moment.

Just that look.

Just the knowledge

that I did that.

I didn't say anything today.

Just ordered.

Just paid.

Just left.

Part of me hoped

they wouldn't recognize me.

Part of me hoped

they had forgotten.

But I know they didn't.

I know because

their voice got quieter,

because their hands

moved faster,

because they wanted

to be done

with me

before I could

do it again.

And the worst part is

I get it.

I completely get it.

Because now I'm

the person

who said the cold thing,

and I'll always be

that person

when they see me,

and I don't know

how to undo it

except by not going back,

except by letting them

forget,

except by staying away.

But I'll go back.

I'll go back tomorrow

probably.

And I'll order.

And they'll remember.

And we'll do this

dance

of me

being cold

and them

looking down

until one of us

stops coming.