When Molly and Sam decide they’re too exhausted to cook, they opt for a simple dinner out. But what starts as a low-key evening turns awkward when the waitress seems to focus entirely on Sam. Will Molly confront her or let it slide?
We hadn’t planned anything extravagant that evening—just a casual beer and a meal at one of Sam’s favorite spots. Neither of us felt like cooking, and since he frequented the place with his friends, it felt like an easy, no-fuss choice.
“Molly, let’s just go out tonight,” Sam suggested. “I don’t want to cook, and you’ve been lounging on the couch, so I know you don’t either.”
I chuckled. “You caught me. It’s been such a long, chaotic day at work. The restructuring has everyone on edge. I’m absolutely drained.”
“Exactly! Let’s grab some food, have a beer, and maybe even dance a little,” he said, grinning.
“Alright, but I’ve got this,” I replied. “Dinner’s on me tonight.”
Sam smiled, giving my knee a quick squeeze as he drove. “Thanks, babe. Oh, by the way, Skye’s the new bartender working Thursdays. She’s just starting out, so we should leave her a good tip. Don’t want to look cheap, especially since I’m here so often.”
I nodded, understanding. Having worked in the service industry myself, I knew how important tips were, especially for someone just starting out.
“Of course,” I assured him. “I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”
At least, that was the plan.
When we arrived, we grabbed two barstools. The pub was lively but not overcrowded—just a typical, friendly atmosphere. As the bartender approached, things took a strange turn.
She greeted Sam with a warm, almost flirty smile, completely ignoring me.
“What can I get for you, hon?” she asked, focusing entirely on him.
Sam ordered two beers, and I chimed in, requesting a burger with fries and onion rings on the side. But she didn’t even glance my way, scribbling down my order like I wasn’t there.
“Anything else for you?” she asked Sam sweetly, her voice dripping with charm.
I tried to brush it off. Maybe she was nervous or just leaning on familiarity since Sam was a regular. But as the night went on, the pattern continued.
She only checked on Sam, asking how his food was and if he needed another drink, while I sat there, practically invisible.
When she finally returned near the end of our meal, she pointed at my plate—still half-full—and directed her question to Sam.
“Need a box for that?” she asked.
I felt my irritation simmering. “Wow, okay,” I muttered under my breath. “This is supposed to be date night.”
Sam, oblivious to the tension, took another sip of his beer. “She’s just trying to be nice, Molly.”
I rolled my eyes but chose to let it slide. For now.
Despite the awkwardness, the food was good, and our glasses stayed full—though largely because Skye seemed more invested in keeping Sam happy than anything else.
“Don’t you love this place, babe?” Sam asked, stretching his arms contentedly. “It just feels so friendly and comfortable here.”
“I wonder why…” I replied, sarcasm thick in my voice.
“It’s the people,” he continued, ignoring my tone. “They’re always great, and the service is top-notch.”
“I’m sure they are,” I muttered. “Especially for you, the regular.”
When the bill came, it totaled around $60. I counted out $30 for the tip—a generous 50%—and folded the cash neatly under the check.
“You’re leaving that much?” Sam asked, surprised.
“You wanted to leave her a good tip, right?” I replied, sliding the money into place.
He shrugged, smiling. “That’s my girl.”
Skye returned to settle the bill, her movements quick and efficient.
As she collected the cash, she turned to Sam, her voice as sweet as ever. “Thank you so much for that! That was really thoughtful of you, Sam. I appreciate it.”
My jaw tightened.
I leaned forward, my voice sharp. “I paid the tab, Skye. I tipped you. Not my husband. You’re welcome.”
Her posture stiffened for a moment, but she didn’t acknowledge me. Instead, she walked away, her ponytail swaying as though she hadn’t heard a word I said. But I knew she had.
The car ride home was tense.
“Did you really have to say that?” Sam finally asked, frustration lacing his tone.
I turned to him, incredulous. “Are you serious, Sam? She ignored me the entire night.”
He sighed, rubbing his temple. “I mean, yeah, but she probably thought I paid. It wasn’t personal.”
“Oh, come on,” I snapped. “Even if she thought you paid, it’s basic courtesy to acknowledge both people at the table. She didn’t have to flirt with you and treat me like I was invisible.”
“Flirt? She was just being friendly,” he insisted, laughing like I was overreacting.
“Friendly? To you, maybe. But to me? I might as well have been a ghost.”
Sam shook his head, clearly done with the conversation. “You embarrassed me. Now she probably thinks we’re ‘those people.’”
“What people? The ones who expect decent service and mutual respect?”
He stayed silent, starting the car.
When we got home, I replayed the night in my head.
Maybe I’d overreacted. But the way she treated me felt all too familiar—like every time someone assumed I wasn’t in charge or underestimated my role.
It wasn’t just about the tip. It was about being seen.
Was I too harsh? Perhaps. But I wasn’t sorry.
And honestly? I’d do it again.
What would you have done?
