So the omelet was pretty good. He’d considered scrambled eggs, but that seemed a bit childish. And really, at a moment like this on a day like today, he’d apparently made the decision that he didn’t want to be seen as childish.
Have you ever seen someone eating scrambled eggs and thought ‘Whoa, that person is totally immature and can’t seem to get it together!’? Of course not. That’s not how this works. It’s his perception that matters -- not your reality.
The southwest omelet, still halfway present on this plate -- that is, half was fully present, fractionally speaking -- included black beans, monterey jack cheese, salsa, sour cream, and unnecessary little spiky bits of tortilla for style, apparently. Partly healthy, at least, it seemed like a grown-up choice.
“That looks good,” said the woman beside him, glancing over at his plate.
He finished chewing as quickly as seemed appropriate, trying not to look too eager, and also trying not to choke.
“It is good,” he agreed. He gave her a huge smile.
Too huge? She was already looking back down at the menu.
He could feel his face flushing. Was it the salsa? No. It was the embarrassment of reality. The attempt to engage and the awkwardness of failing.
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