It was one of those London museum cafes where buggies block the entrance and children trail veggie straws across the floor. The queue of parents stretched to the door and the staff appeared frazzled. I ordered an iced oat milk latte. “That will be £4.50,” said the server. I remember the sensations that follow acutely.
Shock. How much? Regret. I don’t want it. Self-recrimination. Why didn’t I check the price? Embarrassment. If I say I don’t want it, everyone will hear. Acceptance. I’ll pay for it, but I’m never ordering here again. I drank every sip of the coffee, waited for the ice to melt, and drank that, too. I was out of sorts for the rest of the day.
