Friday night was meant to be a quiet escape just Sarah and me, reconnecting after a hectic week. We settled into a warm Italian restaurant, filled with soft lighting and fake grapevines. Our conversation was light, teasing, full of old memories and laughter over shared meals past. It was simple, comforting until the check arrived and everything unraveled.
The waitress returned, card in hand, and slammed it down like a final verdict. “Your card declined!” she announced loudly, then sneered, “Don’t take women out if you can’t pay.” The room fell silent, all eyes on us, as shame and confusion flooded my chest. Sarah froze, and I held her back gently I knew this wasn’t over yet.
I handed over another card while she rolled her eyes, still smirking in front of strangers. When it cleared, she dropped the check with fake cheer: “You’re lucky this one worked.” I stared at the bill, pen in hand, and wrote a quiet message with numbers a $0.83 tip. Not out of cruelty, but principle because respect should never be conditional.
