Second chair, Black woman

Mrs. Adler's hand under the breakfast table. She folded the three hundred into my palm — not a drop, a fold, like she was tucking a letter into a coat. And the nod. Don't speak. I know what that nod means now. Three hundred is not a tip. Three hundred is what you pay someone to not make you say it out loud. I used to think it meant I was special. It means I'm useful in a way that costs extra. I'm ranking Mrs. Adler fourth on the quiet-money list, which is a list I keep because the quiet ones always tip better than the loud ones and they never post about it.

By 7:14 the August bills were next to my mug and the notification came in. Park Avenue. Eight hundred cash. An account name I should have deleted after the summer. I read the notes field three times because my hands were not steady enough to read it once. Second chair will be a Black woman. I read it three times. The app has me suspended under appeal. Someone at that account typed that line knowing that. I don't know yet if the line was a courtesy or a warning. I have until 6:40 AM tomorrow to figure out which one, which is also the same window the appeal is sitting in, and I do not believe in that kind of coincidence.