I stood, lost in thought at the taco counter in Pest.
“Are you OK?” asked the young man at the counter, in English seeping with a beautiful Hungarian accent.
I jogged back into the moment.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, grabbing my metal tray containing a junior burrito and large beer. “Just thinking.”
And I left it at that.
The truth was, I was OK. But, only kindasortanotreallymaybe.