The heavy thud of a boot against the floor was the only warning before the shadow fell over our table. I saw my wife Evelyn’s hand begin to shake as she lowered her fork, her eyes darting toward the blue uniform standing over us.
“I didn’t know your kind was allowed to eat here,” the officer sneered, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the jazz music. Evelyn whispered for me to just look down and stay quiet, her face a mask of practiced, painful patience.
I took a slow sip of my water, watching the officer rip our dinner bill into tiny white shreds that fell like snow onto the tablecloth. He laughed, a jagged sound that drew the eyes—and the smartphone cameras—of every other diner in the building.
He leaned in close, the smell of stale coffee on his breath, and shoved my shoulder with a gloved hand. He called me a “thug” and reached for the handcuffs on his belt, convinced he was about to humiliate me for sport.
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