When my best friend Mia insisted on setting me up with her boyfriend’s friend, I was hesitant. Blind dates weren’t my thing, but she assured me he was polite and dependable. His name was Eric, and from our first messages, he seemed genuinely interested—thoughtful, considerate, never pushy. After a week of chatting, he suggested dinner at a popular Italian restaurant downtown.
The date started well. Eric arrived early with a bouquet of roses, dressed sharply, almost old-fashioned in a charming way. He pulled out my chair, complimented my dress, and even gave me a small engraved keychain. Conversation flowed effortlessly, covering travel, work, and funny dating stories.
When the bill came, he waved me off with a confident, “A man pays on the first date.” It felt traditional, but harmless. Afterward, he walked me to my car and waited until I drove off. The night seemed promising.
The next morning, I received an email titled “Invoice for Last Night.” At first, I laughed, thinking it was a joke. But the itemized list—dinner, roses, the keychain, and even “emotional labor”—made it clear he was serious. At the bottom, he threatened that “failure to comply” might involve Mia’s boyfriend, Chris.
Confused and annoyed, I texted Mia. Her reaction was immediate: “He’s insane. Do not respond.”
Mia and Chris then sent Eric a playful “invoice” of their own, charging him for entitlement and making others uncomfortable. Eric’s messages quickly escalated from defensive to angry to self-pitying.
I ignored him entirely. Eventually, Mia and Chris cut ties with him, recognizing him as a red flag.
Looking back, the evening began like a romantic comedy but ended with a clear lesson: generosity isn’t a contract, and kindness isn’t a debt. I didn’t pay his invoice—but I paid attention.