The waiter was abrupt from the start.

Questions were answered with impatience, requests with visible irritation. Halfway through the meal, we were asked to move tables due to a “mistake,” though no one explained what that mistake was. The interruption broke the rhythm of the evening. What should have felt romantic began to feel awkward, like we were intruding rather than welcomed.

I told myself it wasn’t worth dwelling on. No night is flawless. Still, each brief interaction with the waiter chipped away at the joy—an exaggerated sigh, a dismissive look, a tone that made us feel like an inconvenience. My girlfriend noticed it too. She squeezed my hand beneath the table, a quiet reassurance that the night was still ours, that what mattered was being together.

When the bill arrived—$180—I paid without hesitation. I just wanted the evening to end gracefully. But as we prepared to leave, the waiter returned and placed the receipt back in front of me.

“You forgot the service fee,” he said flatly.

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