The Well-Done Conspiracy and Other Red Flags
When your date compares your aura to his ex-wife’s *before* the bread basket arrives, it’s not a date—it’s a hostage negotiation with complimentary garlic butter.
I knew my date was going south the moment he tapped his knife against his water glass like he was summoning a tribunal—and then ordered his steak well-done, followed by a 90-second monologue on how the USDA secretly grades meat tenderness based on astrological alignment.
"Medium rare? That’s just Big Cattle covering up the truth. The 'rare' part is code for 'rarely edible.'"
I nodded solemnly, fork hovering mid-air over my perfectly innocent arugula salad, while my thumbs frantically typed "how to fake a phone call to escape a date" into my phone—only to discover the top result was a YouTube tutorial titled "Emergency Exit: A Guide for People Who’ve Already Regretted Their Life Choices (and Dinner Reservations)."
Just as I’d mentally measured the bathroom window’s structural integrity—and calculated whether my cardigan could double as a rope—I caught his gaze. He leaned in, eyes wide with unsettling sincerity, and whispered: "You have the same energy as my ex-wife."
I blinked. Same energy? Was that a compliment? A warning? A subpoena?
I glanced at the menu again. The appetizers hadn’t even arrived. The bread basket was still in transit. And yet, somehow, we were already deep in the uncanny valley of marital déjà vu.
I smiled, took a slow sip of water, and said, "Fascinating. Does her energy also come with complimentary Wi-Fi and a 20% off coupon for emotional labor?"
He paused. Then laughed—a sound so genuine and disarming, I almost forgot I’d spent the last six minutes rehearsing my 'sudden emergency involving a very sick goldfish named Kevin.'
We didn’t get a second date.
But I did get a free dessert—courtesy of the waiter, who’d been silently observing the whole thing from the pass-through and slid over a crème brûlée with a sticky note: "For surviving Phase One. Next time, ask about his pet iguana. It’s always the iguana."
Lesson learned: If your date cites governmental meat conspiracies and compares you to an ex before the first bite? Run. But do it slowly—so you can still accept the complimentary crème brûlée on your way out.
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