Imagine this...

It's our first date. I pick you up in my baby blue 1967 Chevy Corvette, compliment you on your beautiful outfit, and then drive us out to your favorite restaurant. When we arrive, I reveal that I booked a reservation for the private dining section the very day we started talking. You ask how I knew you loved this place. I just smile silently, put my hand on yours, and ask for the menu.

The menus arrive and before you can even glance at yours, I put my down and announce to the waiter that we're ready to order. "Right away, sir," he replies. You try to protest that you haven't decided yet, but I shush you and announce to the waiter, "I'll have the bone-in ribeye, medium rare, and she'll have the oysters on the half shell. We'll pair it with the 1983 Amarone." The waiter nods, and shuffles away before you can stop him.

You look at me in confusion. "I didn't want oysters."

I stare back at you, eyebrows raised. "I didn't want oysters either. That's why I ordered a steak."

You hesitate, taken aback. "But... you ordered the oysters for me?"

I smile gently. "Yes, you're welcome."

You're not sure how to respond. The food comes out, and it looks amazing. You're still not in the mood for oysters, but the steak looks to die for, glistening and juicy, with a perfectly pink center.

"Wow, that steak looks so good! Can I get a bite?" you ask me coquettishly.

"No," I respond. "I ordered the steak. If you wanted some, you should have ordered one for yourself."

You frown. "I-"

I ignore you and dig into the steak. It's one of the best steaks I've ever had. I let out a small groan of pleasure. "Mmmm... now that's how you do a bone-in ribeye." I take a sip of wine and close my eyes.

You sigh, and look down at the oysters. They do look pretty good, You try a bite... Yeah. They're fine. Quite good, actually, but the flavor seems kind of muted when you look across the table and see me tearing into the ribeye.

You try to make conversation, but I'm too busy eating steak and drinking wine. You purse your lips, finish your oysters, drink another glass of wine, and glance back across the table.

I'm sitting, content, hands on my belly. The ribeye has been picked clean, and my glass is nearly empty. I see your empty plate, nod, and call for the check.

As the waiter approaches, I turn toward you and smile magnanimously. "Don't worry, I'll pay."

You shake your head in exasperation. I would certainly hope so. You ordered everything, after all, you think to yourself.

The check comes, and I look down. The look of contentment slowly fades. "Hmmm... I didn't realize it would come out to this much, actually. Can we split? I'll do 75/25."

You stare at me in silence. You're awestruck at my audacity, but eventually, reluctantly, you agree. I take out my card, and stick out my hand for yours. Very, very hesitantly, you drop your card into my outstretched palm.

The waiter comes back, sees the two cards, and asks "Would you like to split the bill, sir?"

I hesitate. I look at the waiter. I look at you. I look at the cards.

"No, actually. I'll get it all."

You sigh in relief. I take your card, place it in the check, and hand it to the waiter. He walks off, and as you realize what happened, I place my own card back into my wallet. You try to get the waiter's attention, but it's too late. He's scanning your card, and returning with the receipt.

I stand up, meeting him on the way to the table. "Thank you so much for the meal," I smile at him. "Of course, sir. I hope you come again," he replies.

He hands me the receipt, along with the pen, and I quickly scrawl a fake signature, add a 20% tip, and hand it back. He shuffles off before you can protest.

I sit back down at the table, give you back your card, and smile charmingly. "I hope you had a good dinner." You look into my eyes, dumbfounded at my shamelessness. I gaze back, then grasp your hand gently with both of mine and whisper gently, "I would love to have you over to my place if you’re up for it."