Until the check came.
The server approached with the calm precision of experience — polite, unreadable. She set the bill beside me and murmured, “Take your time.” I reached for my wallet, slid out my card, and handed it over without a second thought. Claire was mid-story about her first apartment when the server returned, card in hand.
I blinked, uncertain I’d heard correctly. My chest tightened. “That must be a mistake,” I said, trying to keep calm. “Could you try again?”
She nodded and disappeared. Heat rose to my face. Claire glanced down at her hands, her smile polite but tight — the kind that says, It’s okay, even when it’s not.
A few minutes later, she returned. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “It’s still not working.”
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