The woman at table twelve lifted her hand as though she were stopping traffic. Her diamond bracelet slid toward her wrist, and the expensive perfume she wore seemed to reach Nkiru Eze before the insult did.
"Excuse me. Who seated that man there?" she demanded, making no attempt to lower her voice. Half the dining room heard her. The other half turned when she pointed across the aisle at an elderly gentleman eating pepper soup alone.
"I seated him, ma," Nkiru answered. "The table was reserved for one guest, and he arrived before your party requested additional space." She kept her hands loosely together in front of her apron, the posture she'd been taught during hospitality training when a customer grew difficult. The man at table twelve raised his eyes from the bowl. He wore a faded brown jacket, an inexpensive cotton shirt, and shoes that had plainly traveled more years than the marble floor beneath them.
Remi Balogun glanced at the man's clothes, then at the empty chair opposite him. "We're discussing business," she said. "Move him somewhere else. I don't want someone listening to a private conversation." Nkiru looked at the table, the dining-room plan, and the three companions already seated with Remi. "I can arrange a screen or offer your party one of our larger private tables, ma. But that gentleman is already having his dinner. I won't ask him to leave his seat for no reason."
"Do you know how much we're spending here tonight?" Remi asked. Her voice had acquired the bright, dangerous edge of a person who believed the question settled everything. She wore a deep green silk dress, sculpted gold earrings, and a wristwatch whose price was probably greater than Nkiru's annual salary. Her friends stared into their phones, unwilling to become either accomplices or witnesses. Behind the service counter, a young waiter stopped polishing a glass.
The elderly gentleman placed his spoon beside his bowl. "Young lady, it's all right," he said. "I can move if it makes things easier." His voice was gentle and almost apologetic, and that bothered Nkiru more than Remi's sharpness. She had seen customers surrender things they had paid for simply because another person spoke with greater authority. "No, sir," she said. "You've ordered your meal, and you have every right to enjoy it where you are."
Remi laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Interesting. So waitresses are giving lectures on rights now?" Nkiru felt her supervisor watching from across the room. She knew what the sensible response was supposed to be: smile, apologize, move the older man, and thank Remi for the opportunity to correct a problem that hadn't existed until she created it. Instead, Nkiru said, "I'm asking only that we treat every guest with respect. I can help with your privacy without inconveniencing him."
"Everybody shouldn't be allowed through those doors just because they can afford one bowl of soup," Remi said. "A place like Meridian ought to have standards." The elderly man lowered his eyes. Nkiru felt something inside her harden. At home, she'd watched her husband stop answering calls because people assumed he'd stolen money. At work, she'd watched wealthy customers speak of service staff as though they were furniture. She had promised herself she would never mistake a price tag for a measure of someone's humanity.