"You're not Stopsky's," said the woman. "You'll never be Stopsky's." And then the asshole stomped her way out the door of the sandwich shop. Pinned to the counter by a line of people who actually wanted sandwiches, he had no recourse but to glue his smile back on and take more orders. He did his best to project cheer to the customers, but inside he was just pissed. His actions took on an abrupt character, until he had to restrain himself to avoid spilling the espressos.
Whittling through the line was hard. He wanted a smoke break, and he didn't even smoke. What he really wanted was a drink. None was forthcoming. He'd been told the previous place had a bar, but none of that liquor had been left behind where he could find it. And he looked, as hard as he could in the five minutes between the line drying up and the woman coming back.
He saw her outside first. Then she came in. He clenched his fist behind the counter as she said, "I'm angry. But it's not your fault. I'm sorry."
"Okay," he said. "Do you want anything?"
"Maybe tomorrow," she said, and left.