Page 181 of Invisible Bars
“Fluff biscuit! No, wait—hold on—don’t y’all start—” My words started tripping over each other, spiraling with the tics. “I—I have Tourette’s. Sorry.”
The barista stared at me, unsure whether to laugh, call security, or offer me chamomile.
“Uh… wait here,” he said, then vanished behind a swinging door without a word.
I swallowed hard, glancing at the growing line of customers behind me. I could feel it creeping up—the burn behind my eyes, the heat in my chest, the tic building like pressure behind a dam.
The guy returned with a chubby white man in khakis and a button-up. His eyes flicked down to the card, then up to me.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he greeted with a tone as fake as sweetener packets. “My employee here believes you’re using a card that may not belong to you. Tell us again how you came into possession of this?”
I cleared my throat. “Imanio Kors is my husband. H-He gave it to me.”
The manager looked like he wanted to laugh but was trying to keep it business-casual.
“You expect us to believeyou’remarried tohim?” the manager repeated, voice dipped in judgment.
“Yes!” I snapped, then winced as a tic blurted out—“Boiled laundry! Don’t gaslight me with your khaki privilege!” My whole body tensed. “S-Sorry! I don’t mean… I mean, I do but not like… oh my God!”
I fumbled in my tote bag for my ID. Of course, it didn’t reflect the name change. I still hadn’t gone to the DMV.
Why hadn’t I gone to the DMV?
My chest tightened like someone was sitting on it.
I backed up, nearly knocking over a napkin holder. It clattered to the floor. A toddler in line pointed at me like I was a circus act.
“Stop looking at me like I stole your taxes! I’m so sorry!” I apologized.
A little boy’s eyes went wide as he ducked behind his father’s leg. But the dad didn’t snap or scold. He just gave me a look… like he understood—like he’d seen someone like me before and knew it wasn’t what it looked like.
“Ma’am,” the manager began, stepping back like I had airborne rabies. “We’re going to have to confiscate the card.”
“I… I d-d-didn’t steal that!” I shouted, louder than I meant to. “I’m—I’m his wife…Naji Kors.”
The place went quiet.
No one laughed. No one made a sound. Just stiff silence.
“Ma’am, please step aside,” the manager advised, voice tighter now, nodding toward the back office.
And then a voice cut through the air, calm but sharp.
“Is there a reason y’all are humiliating Imanio Kors’swife?”
All heads turned.
The girl Paris, who I remembered from the dinner at Imanio’s parents’ house, stood near the entrance in four-inch nude heels and a buttercream trench coat that screamed Fashion Week with one brow arched and her glossy lips curled into a faint smirk. She looked like she’d walked straight out of an ad campaign.
“She’s who?” the cashier blinked.
Paris walked up slowly, pulling her sunglasses down just enough for her eyes to pierce through both employees.
“Imanio Kors’wife; you know, the man who could buy this entire block and still get change back? Y’all about to owe this woman an apologyandsome free tea.”
“She… she was twitching and yelling weird stuff!” the cashier stammered.
Paris snatched the card out of his hand so fast it made him flinch.
