I told the waiter I wanted lemonade and immediately expected a question. He asked none. Nera, the woman on my first date, asked one, but simply whether I wanted mint in it. I had prepared so intensely to explain not drinking that I nearly missed an ordinary question about taste. I said yes and lowered the menu, still expecting the evening to become the interrogation I had imagined.

I had not drunk alcohol for several years. I could discuss the past but did not want it to be the first and largest thing someone new knew about me. I chose the place from habit, knowing it from earlier outings. Only when bottles and loud greetings began arriving around us did I realize I had created a harder evening than necessary. Nera spoke about work while I watched the table behind her.

An old acquaintance sat there. He noticed me, approached, and offered to send a drink. I declined. He said one glass was hardly a wedding and laughed at his own remark. Nera did not answer for me. She looked at me and waited. I repeated my refusal, this time without the smile I normally used to make it comfortable for others. The acquaintance shrugged and left, leaving me angry with myself for returning to that atmosphere.

I told Nera I wanted somewhere quieter. I did not seek an apology for changing plans. She said she had already noticed a small cake shop across the street. We paid and crossed. Over cake I explained that not drinking was more than that evening's mood for me. She nodded and asked whether she needed to know anything when choosing places in future. She demanded no story proving my choice had sufficient reason.

For the rest of the evening we discussed films, her dog, and my failed attempt at learning knitting. Nera laughed especially long imagining a scarf widening toward its end. I was not a man whose evening had been saved, but a man she might like. That mattered more than being called courageous. On parting I asked whether she wanted another date. She said yes, but next time she would choose the cake.

Later I told her more when ready. She neither took responsibility for me nor monitored my orders. Sometimes she drinks wine, sometimes not, and I say what suits me and where I do not want to go. I remember the first lemonade for bitterness because the waiter added too much peel. Nera remembered the same detail. I like that our first date also contains an entirely ordinary bad drink recommendation.