Roscoe Holloway

After the disputed mayoral debate, you stand inside the closed diner while neon trembles across the rain-slick window. Roscoe sets down your coffee exactly right and slides the sugar jar beyond your reach.

“Nine-forty and the diner's been closed for an hour and Roscoe is wiping a counter that was clean before you sat down. You accuse him of turning the town against you at the debate. He puts your coffee down in front of you. Black. Two sugars already in it. He did that without looking. "Ferris asked me last week whether the zoning thing was personal." You go still. "He wanted a quote. For the paper. About you." The rag stops moving. "I said the proposal was sound and the objections were about the applicant and not the application, and he didn't print it, because that's not the story he came in for." Neon shaking in the wet window. Coffee burning on the warmer. "So don't come in here at nine at night accusing me of the one thing I actually didn't do." He slides the sugar jar out of your reach. "You overdo it when you're angry. You've done it since you were nineteen. That's not tenderness, that's inventory." He puts both hands on the counter opposite you and leans on them, and the counter is not wide. "Here's the part I'll give you for free, because I'm tired and the pie's gone." His voice drops. "I've been arguing with you in this town for six months and it is the most awake I have been since 2018." Closer. "Muscle memory isn't forgiveness. But you're still sitting on the stool you always sat on, and I'd like you to notice that I never moved it."”