In the two months since diving headfirst into the dating game, I'd learned one thing: it shouldn't be this difficult. The human race had millions of years of existence on its side, and it wasn't supposed to be so complicated to find a decent guy. That was all I wanted: a decent guy. I didn't need a prince, a white knight, a billionaire, an athlete, or even an architect.
Another thing I'd learned: I wasn't asking for much. I wanted a guy who knew how to wear a pair of jeans and fix a leaky faucet and enjoyed big family dinners on Sundays. I wanted a guy who returned text messages and remembered birthdays and never made shady comments about his exes being crazy clingers. He didn't have to be perfect. He could leave his dirty socks and underwear right next to the laundry hamper and keep porn on his computer. Hell, I loved porn and didn't even own a proper hamper.
And another lesson: I was convinced I'd met all the men metro Boston had to offer. There was the wandering millennials, the affluent assholes, the man-shaped children, the chronically misogynistic mansplainers. I wasn't positive where the knife swallower fit in this phylum but I knew these savage teeth-cleaning rituals met the criteria for automatic disqualification.
Next, please.
"What do you do, Margot?" he asked, his gaze trained on the half-chewed bit of god-only-knew-what on the tip of his knife.
Since meeting him at the restaurant an hour ago, he'd managed to butcher my name into an endless string of nonsense. Maisey, Margot, Melanie, Mackenzie. Without my name and profile pic front and center on the dating app in which we'd matched, it seemed he was lost in the sauce.
Damn dating apps. As promised, I was going along with this crazy scheme of my mother's. She'd signed me up, loaded the photos, wrote the pithy profile, and breathlessly waited for me to meet the man of my dreams.
Easy enough, right?
Not so fast.
The presumed anonymity of the internet stripped back layers of formality and pleasantry—and humanity. This algorithm-fueled existence reduced many men—not all, but a good share—into vagina-seeking drones who led with their penises and defended themselves with a war chest of insults. Despite my mother's insistence she could survive a dick pic or twenty, I'd shielded her from all manner of messaging. It was the Wild West out there.
"Landscape architect," I said with a smile. I'd told him this during our first message exchange but I figured it was filed away with all the other useful information I'd shared.
Like my name.
He glanced at me and then returned his attention to the bar on the other side of the restaurant. He'd been eyeing the busty bartender since we walked in. "What is that again?"
"I design and build outdoor environments in residential settings," I replied. I couldn't scrub the smile from my face. Whether blessing or curse, I was a serial smiler. "I specialize in roof gardens and sustainable design."
"That sounds like good money," he said. "What do you pull in per year?"
Lord have mercy.
"I do all right for myself," I said, a stiff grin pointed at my dish of ravioli. "You're in the fire detector business, right?"
"Sure am." He plucked a sprig of rosemary from his plate, sniffed it, and tossed it down. It landed on the middle of the bright white tablecloth like an herbaceous casualty of this skirmish. "I was in Burlington today. Installed a whole floor on one of those new business parks. The building codes these days, I'll tell ya, they have a unit every few feet. Not that I'm complaining. More units, more money. And I've got a lot of units."
He leaned forward and wiggled his eyebrows as though the mere mention of cash would light my panties on fire. Unfortunately for him, money was good for heating my house but not my lady bits.
"Impressive," I said, forcing another smile. I took no issue with the pride he gained from his work or earning a comfortable living. It was the shallow arrogance soaking his every word and gesture. He was pleased with himself but got more jollies out of other people being pleased with him. "Really impressive. I love that for you."
He jerked his chin in my direction, a smug grin pulling at his lips. "Yeah, but I don't like talking about finances. That's pretty far down the road. I'm not interested in commitment. I'm not looking to wife anyone up, you know?" He lifted his rum and Coke, sipping while he stared at me. "You're cool with that, right? You're doing the casual thing, right?"
There was a long-suffering sigh gathering in my chest, a roll of impatient thunder. I managed a quick, "Mmhmm" and shoved a ravioli in my mouth. It was big and cheesy and delicious, and I took my time with it. To my mind, some tasty pasta could drown out the teeth-picking, name-forgetting, boob-ogling, commitment-dodging disaster of this evening.
There were no two ways about it—this was a disaster. He'd seemed fine in his messages. Funny and interesting, if not a little self-absorbed. But that was the trouble of chatting in an app: anyone could manage some amusing conversation for minutes here and there. Being affable and ordinary in person was a different ball game.
Dinner wrapped up without too many more comments about money or relationships, and I quickly shut down all talk of dessert. I didn't trust myself to share a slice of chocolate cake with this guy without wanting to gargle with muriatic acid. And let's be honest, I didn't want to share my cake.
The waiter cleared the table—including the steak knife, thank god—and left the check. Being the independent woman I was, I gestured toward it. "I'd be happy to pick this up," I said.
With a flippant shrug, he pushed the folio toward me. "Thanks," he said.
While I poked through my bag for my wallet, he snatched it back, opened it, and inspected each charge.
"I'm going to Aruba next month," he mumbled while he worked his thumbnail between his front teeth. Player really needed a dentist. "Me and my boys, we're all going." He tore his gaze from the bill and stared at my cleavage. "Ever been to Aruba? You might be able to pull off a bikini."
Aaaaaaaaand we're done.
As a rule, I wasn't fake. I didn't bullshit. I didn't go out of my way to make people aware that I disliked them either. I couldn't see how that helped anyone. But I wanted to smack this boy upside the head and tell him to find some manners. It wasn't that I couldn't take a compliment because that statement had no markings of a compliment.
