Before you say what you want, you go about setting out cushions for everyone else to land on.
The tone gets fluffed. A laugh is tucked in. You provide the weather report, the traffic report, the childhood backstory, the clause that says everyone’s still good here.
All because you want Thai food instead of the place with the giant menus.
By the time the preference comes to the table, it’s been wrapped so carefully it barely looks like yours.
It’s scary how fast you do it. Like there’s a microscopic concierge in your head handing out warm towels to every possible reaction.
No one frowned yet but you’re already comping dessert.
One day you hear it happening in real time.
“I mean, I’m totally good either way, but maybe—”
There it is.
Your actual want, entering the room through the service entrance.
Not hidden—over-hosted.
You stop catering the reaction before it exists. Let the sentence be regular-sized.
“I want Thai.”
A plain little want.
No tray. No garnish. No manager visit.
— Autistic Ang
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