I went into the convenience store and ordered a bottle of iced tea. The owner didn't turn around immediately, but asked first, "Did the loan get approved?" I replied, "Yes." Only then did he put on gloves, walk to the beverage counter, and without hesitation, reach his left hand into the deepest corner—the coldest, least touched place. The iced tea he took out was in an ordinary bottle, without commemorative packaging, and not a limited edition. He gently brushed the dust off the bottle cap with a small brush and asked me, "Did you bring your ID?" I handed it to him. After verifying it, he pulled out a form for me to sign and put my fingerprint on, confirming that I wasn't a reseller. Then came a series of questions: "Have you ever bought two bottles at once in the past two years?" "Has anyone used your name to hoard and speculate?" I denied them all. He took out a photocopied list and scanned my name with a highlighter—it wasn't marked. “Sure,” he said. “You’re not a frequent buyer, and you haven’t been speculating.” I asked him, “Even iced tea is limited now?” “It’s not a purchase limit, it’s a usage limit,” he corrected. “Not everyone deserves this refreshing treat.” He reminded me, “Buying this means giving up your other high-end spending rights for the month, including braised pork knuckle rice, milk tea, and showing off on social media.” I nodded. He probed again, “It’s not too late to back out now; someone else is waiting.” I said, “I know.” He took a deep breath and placed the iced tea on the counter: “Three yuan.” I paid in cash, and he took the bills one by one. No discount, no free gifts. “Keep it safe,” he handed it to me. “It’s best to get insurance.” “I’ve already contacted them,” I replied. The bottle felt heavy, with water droplets on the sides, perhaps from my sweaty palms. He cautioned, “This might be the last bottle of this batch.” I planned to take it home and slowly enjoy it in my custom-made pure gold cup. He nodded understandingly. "Refrigerate for thirty minutes, don't freeze, that's too harsh." I carefully put it into a canvas bag. He watched me go, then suddenly asked, "Will you give a few drops away, or drink it all yourself?" "I'll drink it myself." As I reached the door and touched the doorknob, he asked again, "Do you know why a lot of people buy this these days?" I turned back. "To look like they can afford it," he said. I chuckled. “To be honest, if this stuff were worthless, nobody would even look at it. But it costs three dollars, which is why it sells. Not because it's particularly good, but because it looks so much like something else. People, as they get older, realize that being able to afford something and being willing to buy it are two different things. But often, once you buy something, people assume you're the one who can afford it. That's the problem. Now, when you go out, people glance at you and assume you're doing well. Nobody asks how many days your loan was approved or what the interest rate is. Everyone only remembers the bottle of iced tea in your hand.” “I really can afford it.” “I know,” he nodded, “that’s how I see you.” I pushed the door open to leave, but he suddenly called out to me, asking quietly, “Want to add a dollar for the sugar-free version? It’s on special this week.” I shook my head. “No, I’m only considering the tropical flavor.” As the door closed, I heard him whisper, “You’re definitely an expert.”