Jack and I had only been dating for three months when he invited me to a special dinner downtown. It wasn’t just any restaurant—it was the kind with linen-draped tables, soft lighting, and a waitlist stretching for months. That night felt like a small milestone, a doorway we were stepping through together.
By dessert, we were relaxed and playful, sharing a chocolate torte and swapping bites like kids. Then I noticed a shift in the room. A few tables away, three women dressed head-to-toe in designer labels were speaking loudly, their laughter demanding attention.
Our waitress, a young woman barely out of her teens, approached their table with plates in hand. One of the women, all sparkle and gloss, wrinkled her nose and said, “Do you smell that? She smells… poor.”
Her friends joined in, critiquing the waitress’s shoes and joking about her lifestyle. They covered their mouths, but it was clear they were savoring the ridicule.
The waitress froze, cheeks burning, hands trembling as she carefully set down the plates. Around us, the room seemed to shrink, and I felt a knot tighten in my chest.
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