We weren’t planning anything fancy that night—just a quick beer and dinner at a spot my husband, Sam, liked. Neither of us was in the mood to cook, and since he visited this place often with his friends, it seemed like the perfect low-effort plan.
“Molly, let’s go out for dinner,” Sam said. “I don’t want to cook, and you’re lounging on the couch, so I know you don’t want to either.”
I laughed.
“I just can’t be bothered tonight,” I said. “It was such a long and hectic day at work. There’s a restructure coming, so everyone’s tense and constantly on edge. It’s been rough.”
“Then let’s go out. Get some food, some beer, and maybe a few dance moves in,” he said.
“I’ve got cash, honey,” I said. “I’ll cover tonight, no problem.”
Sam squeezed my knee as he drove.
“Just that… Skye is the new bartender,” he said offhandedly, referring to the woman working Thursday nights. “We’ve got to make sure to leave a good tip. She’s just starting out, and I don’t want to look like a cheapskate, especially because I’m here so often.”
I smiled at that. I’d been in the service industry for years. Tips mean everything, especially when you’re new. Even now, as the manager of a restaurant, I remember the days when I struggled to get my nightly tips to make ends meet.
No problem, I thought. I’d take care of her.
Or, at least, that was the plan.
When we arrived, we slid into two barstools. The place was buzzing, but nothing overwhelming, just a typical night at a friendly spot. As soon as the bartender approached us, things felt… weird.
She was polite to Sam, overly polite, but she didn’t so much as glance at me.
“What can I get you, hon?” she asked him, a big, flirty smile plastered on her face.
I watched her carefully as Sam ordered a couple of beers. She was beautiful. Her winged eyeliner was perfect, and she had a cute little nose.
Immediately, my guard was up.
I chimed in, asking for a burger and fries with extra onion rings on the side. But guess what? She didn’t even blink in my direction, she just scribbled it down as if I were invisible.
“Anything else for you?” she asked my husband, her voice sugary sweet.
I tried to shake it off. Maybe she was nervous or just having an off night. And because Sam frequented the place, maybe she just gravitated toward him because he was a familiar face.
But throughout the meal, the pattern continued. She only checked in with him, asking how his food was, if he needed another drink. When our plates were almost empty, she popped back yet again.
“Need a box for that?” she asked, pointing at my plate but only directing the question at my husband.
My plate was still half-full. What the hell?
Each time, I answered anyway, but she never really looked at me. Honestly, I got nothing more than monotone responses and fleeting glances, while my husband got smiles, jokes, and playful little laughs.
“Wow, okay,” I muttered. “This is supposed to be date night, Sam.”
My husband watched me take a sip of my beer. He was completely oblivious. He was enjoying himself.
“She’s just trying to be nice, Molly,” he said.
I rolled my eyes but let it go.
For now.
The food was good, and our glasses stayed full. Granted, it was because Skye was interested in my husband, but I told myself to focus on the fact that at least I didn’t have to wait for my meal or refills. She did keep checking on us. Well, on Sam, not me.
“Don’t you just love this place, babe?” Sam asked, stretching his arms out. “I always feel at home here. There’s something just so friendly and comfortable about the whole place.”
“I wonder why…” I said sarcastically.
“It’s the people,” he said, ignoring my sarcasm. “They’re always the good sort, and nobody gets wasted and performs outrageously. And… the service is always good.”
“I’m sure they are,” I said. “You’re a regular here, so I guess they pay extra attention to you.”
He beamed at me, as if it were the biggest compliment to him.
When the bill came, it was around $60. I counted out $30 for the tip—50%, more than generous. I folded the cash neatly under the check.
My husband gave me a questioning look.
“Are you sure, Molly?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, tucking the money in place. “You said you want to leave her a good tip, right?”
“That’s my girl,” he said.
The bartender returned, collected the bill, and cashed us out with quick efficiency.
This girl would do well in a casino, I thought to myself as I watched her long fingers move between the notes. She would move chips around seamlessly.
“Time to go, honey,” I told Sam, who was leaning closer to Skye.
He nodded and took the last swig of his beer.
But then, Skye got on my nerves once more.
She gathered the money and the check and looked right at my husband, her back almost fully turned to me, and spoke in the sweetest voice.
“Thank you so much for doing that! That was really, really wonderful of you, Sam. I appreciate you so much.”
My jaw tightened, and I could feel the heat rising in my chest.
My husband gave her a polite nod, already slipping his jacket on. Meanwhile, I just sat there, staring at the back of her head. She was less than ten inches away from me, close enough that I could reach out and tap her shoulder.
Instead, I leaned forward, close enough for her to smell the beer on my breath
“I paid the tab, Skye. I tipped you. Not my husband. You’re welcome.”
The words came out much sharper and harsher than I intended, the sarcasm dripping from each syllable.
She paused, just for a second, but didn’t turn around. Instead, she picked up Sam’s empty beer bottle and walked away. There was no apology, no acknowledgment.
She simply walked off, her ponytail swinging behind her like she hadn’t heard me.
But I know she did.
On the way out, my husband was quiet. But I could feel his frustration simmering beneath the surface. He was mad.
We didn’t speak until we got back into the car.
“Did you really have to say that?” he asked, the irritation clear in his voice.
I turned to him, absolutely stunned.
“Are you serious, Sam?” I asked. “She didn’t even acknowledge that I was there the entire time.”
He sighed, rubbing his temple like I was the one causing all his problems.
“I mean, I get it. But she probably thought I paid. It wasn’t personal.”
“Oh, come on,” I snapped. “Even if that woman did think you paid, it’s basic courtesy to treat both people equally. She didn’t have to flirt with you the whole time and act like I was invisible, Sam.”
“Flirt?” he laughed, like the idea was ridiculous. “She was just being nice.”
“Nice?” I shot back. “To you, maybe. I’m sitting right there, paying the bill, and she can’t even look at me. How’s that nice? What person behaves like that? Unless they want attention from someone…”
He shook his head and started the car, clearly done with the conversation.
“You embarrassed me, okay?” he said. “I come here all the time with the guys, and now she… now she probably thinks that we’re those people.”
“What people? The woman who is upset at how she was treated by a bartender and the man who let it all unfold?”
An annoyed man sitting in a car | Source: Midjourney
Sam was silent.
“Well, maybe she should’ve done her job and thanked the person who actually paid,” I muttered, crossing my arms.
The rest of the drive was silent.
When we got home, I couldn’t stop replaying the moment in my head.
Maybe I overreacted. But something about the way she treated me felt so… familiar.
Like every time someone assumed I wasn’t in charge or the one with the money.
It wasn’t just about the tip. It was about feeling invisible, again. Like how I was treated at work. Everyone thought my head waiter was the manager because of the way he carried himself.
But I was the manager. Like how I was the one who had paid tonight.
Was I too harsh? Maybe. But I wasn’t sorry. And honestly, I’d do it again.
A woman standing in a living room with folded arms | Source: Midjourney
What would you have done?
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Source: Amomama
