Allergic to Truth, Not Dairy

As if their relentless torment wasn’t enough, the woman suddenly shrieked, jabbing a finger at her plate. “I told you I’m allergic to dairy!” she cried, her voice slicing through the café. Her companion shook his head, muttering about incompetence. The food they ordered—smothered in cheese and cream—was unmistakably made with dairy.

The claim hit like a slap. No mention of allergies had been made during their order. My hands clenched as the realization sank in—this wasn’t an oversight. She was trying every card in her hand to make sure that I would get in trouble. Their audacity was staggering, but I silently vowed not to crumble.