As I sat across from him, his charming smile and gentle words had made the evening feel like a scene from a romantic movie. The candlelight flickered, casting a warm glow over our table, and I found myself lost in the moment. When the bill arrived, the waitress’s comment—“Sir, your card was declined”—shattered the illusion. His face drained of color, and I stepped in, paying with a reassuring smile, hoping to salvage the night. He mumbled thanks, and we prepared to leave, the awkwardness hanging between us.
As we stood, the waitress grabbed my arm, her eyes wide with urgency. “I lied,” she whispered, slipping the receipt into my hand. Confused, I turned it over, my heart racing. In frantic handwriting, two words leaped out: “He’s married.” The air seemed to thicken as the reality sank in. I glanced at him, now chatting obliviously with the host, and felt a mix of betrayal and disbelief.
I excused myself to the restroom, needing a moment to process. Staring into the mirror, I decided this date was over. Returning, I thanked him politely, citing a sudden headache, and left. Outside, the cool night air hit my face as I vowed to trust my instincts next time—and maybe check for a ring.
