a small leather folder. I reached for my wallet almost automatically.
Claire was still telling me a funny story about a disastrous apartment move, so I barely interrupted her. I placed my bank card inside the folder and handed it to the waitress.
A few moments later, she returned.
Her expression was polite, but something about her hesitation immediately caught my attention.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said quietly. “Your card was declined.”
For a second, I thought I had misunderstood her.
“That’s strange,” I replied. “Could you try it again, please?”
She nodded and took the card back.
I tried to remain calm, but embarrassment was already creeping in. I looked down at the table, moved a few sugar packets around, and pretended to be completely relaxed.
Claire stopped talking.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Of course,” I answered quickly. “There must be a technical issue.”
But inside, I was
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