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The night was meant to be a celebration, the kind you circle on the calendar weeks in advance. I had saved carefully, rehearsed what I would say, and chosen a restaurant that promised elegance—soft lighting, polished silverware, and the quiet confidence of a place that claimed to make moments memorable. My girlfriend arrived glowing with anticipation, and for a while, everything felt right. We laughed over appetizers and reminisced about how far we had come together. But as the evening unfolded, small disruptions crept in. The waiter seemed impatient, dismissive of our questions, and strangely insistent that we move tables due to a “mix-up” that was never fully explained. What should have been romantic started to feel uncomfortable, like a song played slightly off-key.
I tried to brush it off, reminding myself that experiences are rarely perfect. Still, the tension lingered. Each interaction with the waiter chipped away at the joy of the night—an eye roll here, a curt response there. My girlfriend squeezed my hand under the table, silently telling me it was okay, that what mattered was us. When the bill arrived, totaling $180, I paid without complaint, hoping to end the evening on a graceful note. That was when the waiter returned, placing the receipt back on the table and stating, flatly, that I had forgotten his service fee. Something in his tone struck a nerve, not because of the money, but because it felt like the final dismissal of our experience.
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