My friend invited me to a fancy steakhouse downtown—the kind of place where the lights are low, the tables are heavy wood, and the menus don’t list prices because they assume you’re not afraid of them.
You know the type. The kind of restaurant where the waiter introduces himself like he’s about to be part of your life story.
Before we even left the house, I was clear. Not awkward. Not dramatic. Just honest.
“I can’t spend a lot,” I said. “If I come, I’ll keep it really light.”
She laughed and waved her hand like it was nothing.
“Of course. No problem at all.”
I believed her.
That was my first mistake.
From the moment we sat down, something felt off. She leaned back in her chair like she’d arrived at a celebration she hadn’t told me about. She didn’t open the menu so much as claim it.
When the waiter asked if we were ready to order, she didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll take the ribeye,” she said confidently. “Medium-rare.”
Then she added sides.
Truffle mashed potatoes.
Creamed spinach.
Grilled asparagus.
She ordered a glass of wine, too. The kind where the waiter nods slowly and doesn’t mention the price.
I smiled, nodded, tried to keep the mood light. But inside, something tightened. I’d seen this pattern before.
She liked to live big.
She liked to enjoy freely.
And she liked when someone else helped absorb the consequences.
When it was my turn, I ordered a small steak salad. No drink. No sides. I skipped dessert before it was even offered.
I told myself I was fine. I told myself this was just dinner.
But the tension sat with me the entire meal, quiet and persistent. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t resentful. I was just… aware.
Aware of the imbalance.
Aware of the unspoken assumption.
When the waiter came back and asked if we were ready for the check, she smiled brightly and said the words I knew were coming.
“Oh, we’ll just split it.”
Not a question.
Not a pause.
Just a statement.
The words landed heavier than I expected.
I could’ve spoken up. I could’ve said something. I could’ve reminded her of the conversation we had before we came.
But I didn’t.
I nodded once and said, “Sure.”
A few minutes later, she excused herself to go to the restroom.
The second she disappeared around the corner, I raised my hand and called the waiter back.
“I need a favor,” I said quietly.
He leaned in.
“Can you add three entrées to go? The ribeye, the filet, and the salmon.”
He blinked. “All to go?”
“Yes,” I said calmly. “Please put them on this table’s bill.”
No anger.
No drama.
Just clarity.
He nodded and walked away.
When she returned, the check arrived almost immediately.
She picked it up, scanned the total, and froze.
$280.
Her brows pulled together. “Wow… that’s way more than I expected.”
She tapped the receipt like it might explain itself.
I glanced at the number, then at her empty wine glass, the shared sides, the plates she’d cleared with enthusiasm.
“Yeah,” I said evenly. “It adds up.”
She laughed nervously. “I guess prices have really gone up, huh?”
I didn’t respond.
I paid my half without hesitation, stood up, and thanked the waiter.
As I walked out, he handed me a neatly packed bag with three steaming boxes inside.
Dinner, after all, was something I planned to enjoy.
Just not on someone else’s terms.
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