Picture this: You’re out at a nice dinner with your friends, the ambiance is perfect, the laughter is flowing, and then – boom – the bill arrives like an uninvited guest. The room suddenly turns into a live-action version of ‘The Office’ with all the awkward glances and forced chuckles. So, do you all draw straws for who pays what, or do you pull a sneaky maneuver that leaves everyone stunned? Buckle up, because this is a tale for the ages.

So here’s the sitch: I’m a 27-year-old dude, let’s call me Sam, and I’ve been part of a solid friend group since our wild college days. There’s about eight of us, for context. Now, in every group, you’ve got those two characters who make things interesting. Meet Susan and Greg: the delightful duo who consistently think ordering the most expensive dishes on the menu is their birthright, and then conveniently forget their wallets at home.

One fine weekend, our buddy Dan suggests a casual dinner invite. I’m game, but I make it crystal clear: If Susan and Greg are on the guest list, count me out. Dan pulls out his diplomatic card and convinces me to put my reservations aside for one night. Fine, Dan. Just this once.

The evening starts off well. The chatter is animated, the vibes are positive. Then the orders begin. The other four friends order modestly, racking up around $40 each. Enter Susan and Greg, stage left, who, true to form, go all out, ordering dishes worth about $200 each.

Now, it’s my turn to order. All eyes on me, waiting for the next move. With the finesse of a chess grandmaster, I point to a $4 drink on the menu and send it to the kitchen. Cue the puzzled looks, especially from Dan, who asks why I didn’t order food. I coolly reply that I’d suddenly lost my appetite. To my surprise, two other friends decide to ride the coattails of my cunning plan and cancel their orders too, opting for just drinks.

The main courses arrive, and Susan and Greg dig in, oblivious to the storm brewing. Soon enough, it’s check time. Greg, flaying the confidence of a gladiator, instructs the waiter to split the bill six ways evenly. That’s when I make my move. With the precision of a courtroom lawyer, I correct Greg, informing him that the bill should be split three ways, as three of us only had drinks.

Greg’s face morphs from confusion to realization. Since the regular bill split wouldn’t apply, Dan, having consumed a modest $50 worth of food, is now staring at a sizable $146.98 tab. The look on his face when he picked up the receipt was akin to someone discovering the twist in a thriller movie.

Calmly, I slid a $10 bill across the table for my drink, bid everyone farewell, and exited like a hero in an action flick. The aftermath? My phone exploded with texts from Susan and Greg, branding me the villain of the evening for disrupting their well-laid plans. Their grievance? They had to cough up more cash than anticipated because I played the game smarter.

But wait, there’s more. Dan, the one left holding the pricey dinner bag, chimed in too. His take was that if I was so against Susan and Greg’s antics, I should have just stayed home instead of pulling off such an elaborate charade.

Here’s my take: I don’t regret a thing. Sometimes you’ve gotta shake things up to make a point. And boy, did I make mine. Who knows? Maybe next time, Susan and Greg might think twice before they order like it’s their last supper. Or perhaps, they might even consider bringing their wallets.