My card declined in front of nine partners. A man I'd met once — over a stapler — asked for the owner's name.

Work dinner. Nine of them, one of me. I offered to split the bill so I wouldn't be the girl who couldn't.

The machine beeped. The hostess said "declined" twice, louder the second time, the way people do when they want the room to hear it.

Somebody laughed. Somebody always laughs.

At the far end, a man I'd spoken to exactly once put down his glass and asked the hostess for the owner's name. She thought he was going to complain about me.

Eleven minutes later he came back, sat down, unfolded his napkin, and looked at me — not at her.

"You're going to want to hear what I just bought," he said.