That was until the next morning when I saw that he’d sent me a Venmo request.
For $86.42.
I stared at my phone, waiting for the punchline. Maybe it was a joke? Maybe he’d sent it to the wrong person?
Then another message came through.
“Had a great time last night. I believe in fairness. I covered dinner, so you can just reimburse your half. Looking forward to date #2.”
My stomach dropped.
This was the same man who dramatically slid his card across the table and said, “A man pays on the first date.” The same man who refused to let me touch my wallet. The same man who made a whole speech about chivalry.
Now he wanted itemized reimbursement.
I opened the request details. He had split everything exactly down the middle — appetizer, entrees, tax, tip. Even the dessert he insisted we share.
I typed, deleted, retyped.
Finally, I replied:
“I offered to pay my half last night. You said no.”
Three dots appeared.
“Well, I didn’t want to embarrass you in public. But relationships should be equal.”
Embarrass me?
I felt the roses on my kitchen counter suddenly look ridiculous. Like props from a performance.
I thought about sending the money just to avoid the awkwardness. But something about the whole thing felt… transactional. Like the flowers, the door-opening, the chair-pulling — all of it was part of some script.
So instead, I declined the request.
And I sent one last message.
“I agree. Relationships should be equal. Next time, let’s just split the check at the table.”
A minute later, he unsent the Venmo request.
Then came a final text.
“Wow. Didn’t realize you were this kind of woman.”
I smiled at my screen.
And just like that, the best first date ever officially became the funniest first date story I’ve ever had.
The roses?
I gave them to my neighbor.
She said they were beautiful.
I said, “They were.”
