Here's a brief excerpt from a short story, Just a Joke, I was lucky enough to have published several years ago:
The pizza was perfect, ingredients genuine, not artificial: crust charred slightly; cheese gooey; sauce steaming, requiring careful eating lest the mouth suffer burns. Such quality was becoming rare around town. The product in Manhattan, by and large, was counterfeit, its shape the only relationship to the real thing.
Here, in this cramped Brooklyn shop that hadn't been renovated in years, business boomed. Commuters, shoppers, students were in and out all day. On the sidewalk just beyond the doorstep, young blacks in the blue jerseys of Lincoln High School stood munching as they awaited the bus. Invariably, a person or two would veer into the place from each wave that poured from the train station two doors down.
Seated at the first of three tables, headset piping Sinatra into his ears, Joe reveled in the bustle. This's livin', he thought, savoring his treat, craning his neck as the young Russian beauty from the accessory shop next door hurried by, ignoring the stares she attracted. He could picture that face, the devastating blue eyes and natural golden hair, peering out from the covers of fashion magazines. She might be too short for runway fame, but he was certain her face would command a fortune. He wished he knew someone in the business so that he might send her on her way.
Stop, he told himself, doubting his motive was pure, chuckling at the absurdity of the fantasy. What would she want with a paunchy middle-aged educator? Suddenly he felt guilty about snacking. His wife, should she find out, wouldn't let him hear the end of it.
Sonny, the manager, whose face was perpetually tanned, squeezed past the counter and toward the door, pulling on a jacket. "Awright, fellas, I'm leavin'," he said, gazing over his shoulder at the bakers. Noticing Joe, he took the seat opposite him and leaned forward. Despite the interruption of his reverie, Joe smiled and removed his headset.
"Big black guy struts into a bar..." said Sonny quietly, deep blue eyes and the white hair at the sides of his head standing out handsomely against the bronze flesh.
Joe listened eagerly and tittered at the punchline, although he found it disappointing. Sonny left. Headset back in place, Joe returned to his treat. As he tilted his head to take a bite, he noted a customer waiting at the counter. He grew queasy. Although he was unable to determine the sex let alone race, as the person was wearing a large coat and wool cap, his instincts sensed trouble. Sure enough, a slight turn of the head revealed a black, female face. Flushed with shame, he despaired. Why did these situations always find one? he wondered.
You didn't ask to hear it, he told himself, peeved. Had she heard it? Of course, he thought. That was life. You couldn't help hurting people even when you had no intention of doing so. Sometimes you just wound up in the middle against your will. What could he have done - censure Sonny?
No doubt the woman thought him a bigot. He dared not apologize, as it was possible she hadn't heard. Having lost his appetite, he left, discarding the half-eaten slice in a litter basket down the street so as not to insult the bakers. So distracted was he that he failed to sneak a peak into the accessory shop. Realizing the oversight, he became irked. He'd allowed the incident to rob him of the pleasure of looking at a pretty girl, which indicated a shift in personal priorities, which translated into : "over the hill."
Read Vic's stories, free:
http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
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