A Dinner That Taught Me More Than I Expected
I’d been planning this night for weeks—the kind of evening that lingers in memory. Every detail mattered: the restaurant with soft lighting, crisp linens, gleaming glassware. I rehearsed conversations in my head, saved up carefully, and hoped for a night that felt effortless and intimate. When my girlfriend arrived, radiant and smiling, I thought everything was finally aligning.
At first, it was perfect. We laughed over appetizers, shared stories from our past, toasted to how far we’d come. For a while, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of us. But then, little cracks appeared.
The waiter was abrupt from the start, impatient with questions, dismissive with requests. Midway through, we were asked to switch tables over a vague “mistake.” The rhythm of the night shattered. What had been quiet, easy intimacy now felt awkward—as if we didn’t belong.
I tried to ignore it. No evening is flawless. But every sigh, every sharp glance from him, chipped away at the joy. My girlfriend noticed, squeezing my hand under the table, reminding me that the connection between us mattered more than the setting.
When the bill arrived—$180—I paid without hesitation, determined to leave gracefully. But just as we were about to walk out, the waiter returned.
“You forgot the service fee,” he said flatly.
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