For a millisecond, it felt refreshing. Then, the botanical bitterness of the non-alcoholic aperitif hit his tongue like a physical weight. His face contorted—eyebrows shooting up, mouth puckering into a grimace that looked like he’d just bitten into a grapefruit peel soaked in medicine.
"Trust me," Mark said, his voice reaching a pitch of forced enthusiasm. "You haven't lived until you've tried the Italian classic. It’s a legend".
The Florida sun beat down on the Epcot pavement, but inside , the air was crisp and smelled faintly of sugar. Mark led his younger brother, Leo, toward the shimmering row of self-serve soda fountains.
Mark erupted into laughter, nearly dropping his own cup. "Welcome to the club, Leo! It's an Epcot rite of passage".
