Before you ask, yes—I’m actually okay. I can feel you hesitating, the way people do when they lower their expectations out of politeness. You ask this question as if it comes with a proviso, like something unfortunate but manageable is about to happen to your lunch. But I’ve been in therapy for a while now, and one of the things I’ve learned is that I’m not responsible for managing other people’s expectations—especially when those expectations were built around a different soda entirely.
I see the moment the question lands. You pause to scan the menu, even though it won’t change. I clock the quick glance toward the server, as if they might somehow intervene. Sometimes you whisper it to the table; sometimes you say it too loudly, like you’re warning everyone else. I stay where I am, patient and effervescent, while you work through your feelings that have nothing to do with me.
