When my best friend Mia told me she wanted to set me up with her boyfriend’s friend, I hesitated. Blind dates weren’t really my thing. But Mia was insistent. “You’ll love him,” she said. “He’s polite, smart, stable — a total gentleman.”
Against my better judgment, I agreed. His name was Eric. From the first message, he came off as confident but not pushy — the kind of guy who used complete sentences and asked thoughtful questions instead of sending one-word replies. After a week of chatting, he suggested dinner at a nice Italian place downtown.
The night started out perfectly. Eric showed up early, holding a bouquet of roses and wearing a crisp button-down. “These are for you,” he said with a practiced smile that somehow felt genuine. Inside, he pulled out my chair, complimented my dress, and even gave me a small personalized keychain — my initial engraved on polished metal.
I remember thinking, Wow, maybe Mia was right. He seemed like the kind of man who actually understood effort. Over dinner, conversation flowed easily. We talked about travel, work, bad Tinder dates, and how both of us missed movie theaters that didn’t cost a fortune.
When the bill arrived, I reached for my purse, but Eric waved me off. “A man pays on the first date,” he said smoothly, sliding his card to the waiter. It was old-fashioned, maybe even a little performative, but I wasn’t going to argue.
As we walked out, he offered me his arm and walked me to my car. He even waited until I started the engine before leaving. It felt refreshingly normal — no weird pressure, no awkward silence, just a genuinely pleasant evening. On the way home, I texted Mia: You might actually be right about this one.
The next morning, I woke up smiling. I expected a cute “Had a great time” message. Instead, I found something that made my stomach drop — an email with the subject line: “Invoice for Last Night.”
I thought it was a joke. Maybe a meme or a playful reference to the bill from dinner. But when I opened it, I froze. It wasn’t a joke.
The document was professionally formatted — logo, table of “services,” total amount due.
Each “charge” listed some part of the evening:
Dinner: $120, covered in full.
Flowers: “In-kind gesture — requires reciprocation (one hug).”
Keychain: “Personalized gift — repayable via coffee date.”
Emotional labor: “Holding hands next time to express appreciation.”
At the bottom, in bold, it read:
“Failure to comply may result in Chris hearing about it.”
Chris — as in Mia’s boyfriend. Eric’s friend.
I just stared at the screen. My first thought was disbelief. My second was disgust. This wasn’t some dark joke or quirky sense of humor. He’d actually itemized affection like it was a business transaction — and then used my friend’s boyfriend’s name as leverage.
I immediately texted Mia: You’re not going to believe this.
Within minutes, I forwarded her the “invoice.” Her reply came fast: Oh my god. He’s insane. Don’t answer him.
But Mia being Mia, she didn’t stop there. She looped in Chris, who, to his credit, was both horrified and ready to mess with his so-called friend. Together, they hatched a plan to hit Eric back with a taste of his own medicine.
That afternoon, Chris sent Eric his own “invoice.” It looked official — complete with mock legal jargon and a company logo that said “Karma & Co.”
The charges?
Emotional disturbance fee: For making a woman uncomfortable.
Public embarrassment surcharge: For acting like a creep on a first date.
Service charge: “For sitting at the same table as someone out of your league.”
At the bottom, it read:
“Failure to comply will result in permanent reputation damage. No refunds.”
Eric lost it. He texted me a flurry of messages, alternating between anger and self-pity.
“You’re overreacting.”
“It was supposed to be funny.”
“You just can’t take a joke.”
Then, finally:
“You missed out on a great guy.”
I didn’t reply. I just sent a thumbs-up emoji and blocked him.
That night, Mia called me, still laughing so hard she could barely speak. “I’m so sorry,” she said between gasps. “I swear, I had no idea he was that unhinged.”
I wasn’t even mad. Honestly, I was more relieved than anything. It’s not every day someone exposes their true character on date one.
What Eric thought was clever was actually creepy — a perfect preview of the controlling behavior he probably hides under all that fake charm. If that “invoice” hadn’t arrived, who knows how long it would have taken for me to see it?
Later, I reread his email, trying to understand the logic. Was it about power? Ego? Or just garden-variety arrogance dressed up as humor? Probably all three.
But what struck me most was how rehearsed it felt. The layout, the wording, even the fake professionalism — this wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment prank. He’d done this before, or at least thought about it.
Maybe he expected me to laugh it off, to play along, to feed his need for control disguised as wit. Instead, I did the one thing he couldn’t stand: I ignored him.
In the days that followed, Mia and Chris cut him off completely. Apparently, when confronted, Eric doubled down — claiming I was “too sensitive” and that “women don’t appreciate humor anymore.” Classic deflection.
Meanwhile, my phone stayed blissfully quiet. No more “gentleman.” No more invoices. Just peace.
Looking back, I can even appreciate the absurdity of it. The night had started like something out of a romantic comedy — roses, charm, laughter — and ended like a cautionary tale about modern dating and entitlement.
If nothing else, I learned a valuable lesson: pay attention to the small red flags before they turn into giant ones. Anyone who sees kindness or generosity as a debt waiting to be collected isn’t romantic — they’re manipulative.
So now, when people ask about my worst date, I don’t even hesitate.
“The one who sent me an invoice,” I say, grinning.
It always gets a laugh, but I make sure to add, “And he really thought I’d pay.”
Truth is, I did pay — just not in the way he expected. I paid attention. And that’s worth more than any dinner bill.
