My date thought he could control what I ate and shut the dessert menu before I even had a chance to look. By the end of the night, he was the one left with a bitter taste and a room full of witnesses.
So I went on a first date last week. I thought it would be chill.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
His name was Mark.
We met on a dating app. He had one of those bios that tried really hard to sound casual, but you could tell he edited it six times.
“Financial analyst. CrossFit junkie.
Looking for a woman who can keep up — physically, mentally, and lifestyle-wise.”
I figured he meant someone active. I do yoga. I hike.
I drink enough water and go to bed at a reasonable time. I can keep up.
What he actually meant was someone he could boss around.
We chatted for two weeks. His messages were fine.
A little dry. A little too into macros and pre-workout powder. But I thought, hey, maybe he’s just focused.
Driven. Nothing wrong with that.
He picked the restaurant. Said he knew a spot with “real food” and “chill ambiance.”
It was one of those trendy Italian places with low lights, soft music, and waiters who call everyone bella. You know the type — artisan pasta and wine that costs more than your electricity bill.
I got there first.
He showed up two minutes later, right on time. He looked like his pictures. Tall, clean-cut, button-down shirt tucked in, and a watch that probably cost more than my rent.
“Hey,” he said, smiling.
“You look exactly like your pics. That’s rare.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You too.”
He opened the door for me.
Polite. Nice. Probably not a serial killer.
Promising start.
We sat near the window. Candle on the table. Menu full of words I couldn’t pronounce but wanted to eat.
That’s when he started talking.
“So I get up at five. Fasted cardio. Then I hit the gym.
Monday’s push day. Chest, shoulders, triceps. I’m benching 285 now.
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