“Yes, hello, I need a potato.”
“That’s kind of what we do here,” Sam Wilson said, not looking up from his tallies. “And we’ve got a few options, so if it’s not crossed out on the board, I might be able to scrape it together for you.” He glanced up, just to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. “Except the truffle fries, the last of those just walked out the door, as they say, so…”
It was late and he was tired and he was close enough to sold out that he just wanted to take off for the night. Steve had locked up half an hour ago, heading out to distribute his meager leftovers to the homeless that waited patiently for anything he might have to offer. Sam joined him most nights, but he’d been in the middle of a rush when Steve had shut down, and barely had time to wave as Steve passed by.
He was tired and his feet hurt and he had a nasty burn on the side of his right wrist. Still, he put on his best customer service smile. “What can I get for you?”
He turned to the window. Tony Stark was leaning there, a contraption of white PVP pipe thrown over his shoulders. His eyes went from one side to the other, and he leaned in. “Potato me.”