I took Tom’s beverage and there is no excuse, since his name is on the label on the side.
But in my defense, when I asked the woman behind the counter–she of hat brim pulled down over her eyes who mumbled something akin to “order ready” as she slid Tom’s beverage across the counter–“Is this mine? I didn’t hear–“, she nodded and walked away. The woman next in line was frothing behind me, human tailgate-style, and I didn’t want to cause a scene so I took the drink I thought was mine and went back to my car where I started to wonder why it tasted so much better than it should.
Oh, I realized once I pulled into my driveway, having finished off 2/3 of it. Whole milk. Whole milk, light ice for Tom. Whose drink I took. Because I trusted a eye-contactless nod rather than investigating just to avoid being a bother.
If it makes you feel any better, Tom, if it gives you some sense of justice or vengeance or karma working in your favor for once… I’m lactose intolerant.