ONE
‘So, do you come here often?’
The man sitting across from me tilts back his bottle of Stone & Wood, gaze sweeping lazily down my body like I’m a daily special he might order twice.I resist the urge to roll my eyes – barely – and answer with a smile that feels like a performance, which, to be fair, it is.This bar, Brookie’s, is five minutes away from my place and the food is almost worth pretending to be interested in someone’s job in crypto.Jodie, the waitress behind the bar, knows my order by heart.Guac to start, kingfish ceviche, a side of fries because I refuse to apologise for carbs, and a lychee martini – or two, depending on how bleak the date is.
‘Not really,’ I say with a nonchalant shrug.‘I’m more of a bookworm.I don’t get out much.’
Lie number one.
He nods with a practised smile, all straight teeth and tousled brown hair like he just rolled out of a Ralph Lauren ad and into my dating app.He leans in, biting his lower lip like the tension between us is already building.It’s not his first time running this game.Sadly, it’s not mine either.We’re two turds circling the same toilet bowl, waiting to be flushed.Romantic, I know.
‘I saw on your profile that you’re into Charles Dickens,’ he says, eyes sparkling with hope.‘Got a favourite?’
‘Great Expectations,’ I reply smoothly.‘I really see parts of myself in Pip.’
Lie number two.I haven’t read a single Dickens novel in my life, unless a ChatGPT summary counts.
He chuckles, popping a guac-loaded chip into his mouth.‘Oh yeah?Who’s got you lovesick?’
I swallow a bite of ceviche.‘Not lovesick.Just trying to simplify my life.’
He nods like we’ve uncovered a mutual truth.‘Me too.’
No, we’re not the same.You wear a signet ring, and your bio included the phrase ‘sapiosexual’.But I’m here, aren’t I?
He leans closer, his hand brushing my arm.‘It’s as if we’re living in a simulation where social capital matters more than actual identity.’
His fingers graze mine on the stem of my glass, and I blink slowly, resisting the urge to scream into the void.
‘Exactly,’ I say without hesitating.‘I couldn’t agree more.’
I couldn’t care less.
‘Wanna get out of here?’he asks, eyes flicking to the tiny puddle at the bottom of my martini glass.
I smile, knowing this was the goal all along.‘Sure.’
I down the rest of my drink in one go.Sweet, syrupy and expensive enough to blur the red flags.
Then comes the ritual: the bill dance.I reach for my wallet, but he intercepts casually.‘Please.I’ve got this.’
I pause for exactly three seconds – long enough to telegraph mild discomfort, but not long enough to actually protest.
He squeezes my arm like he’s reading from a script.‘How about I get the bill and you order the Uber?’
‘Deal,’ I say, tucking my wallet away like a good little feministwho’s totally fine letting patriarchy pick up the tab if it comes with a side of ceviche.
He heads towards the bar.Jodie – tiny, tattooed and always smelling faintly of coconut sunscreen – slides in to clear our plates.
‘He’s yummy,’ she says under her breath, smirking.
‘Better than the last one,’ I murmur, watching him lean casually against the counter, all broad shoulders and bedroom eyes.
‘The finance guy?’she asks.
I nod.
‘Yeah, he was rude.This one looks like he at least fake-listens.’
