Before I could even respond, a woman at the next table stood up and walked over. She was well-dressed, maybe in her forties, and she had clearly heard the entire exchange. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, looking directly at my date, “but did you say your name was Brooke?” My date’s confident smile flickered. “Yes,” she said slowly. The woman nodded, almost amused. “I thought I recognized you. You did the exact same thing to my son three weeks ago at this restaurant. Ordered the lobster, refused to split, and left him with the bill.” The nearby tables had gone quiet. My date’s face began to redden.

But the woman wasn’t finished, and neither was karma. It turned out she wasn’t just a diner who happened to recognize a repeat offender. She gestured toward the front of the restaurant, where a man in a manager’s blazer was already walking over, having been flagged down by our waiter. “Actually,” the woman added, “you might want to explain to the manager why you still have an unpaid tab here from that night.” My date’s head snapped toward the approaching manager, and the color drained from her face entirely. She had chosen this restaurant on purpose. She just hadn’t realized it remembered her.