First dates are always a strange mixture of nerves, curiosity, and a dash of hope. For weeks beforehand, I had gone back and forth with myself about whether I should even say yes to the invitation. I’d met David on a dating app.
He was handsome in his pictures; strong jawline, a clean haircut, a smile that seemed more practiced than spontaneous, but pleasant enough. His messages were polite, nothing too forward, and he always responded quickly. That, I told myself, was worth giving a chance.
After all, what’s the point of staying on an app if you never take things beyond the glowing screen? When the evening finally arrived, I fussed over my outfit longer than I’d like to admit. In the end, I chose something safe but flattering: a soft navy dress that had just the right amount of stretch, paired with heels I could actually walk in.
I dabbed on some perfume, checked my reflection, and reminded myself not to expect fireworks. Just go, enjoy yourself, and see what happens. That was my mantra.
David showed up on time, which was already a good sign. Punctuality is underrated. He looked sharp, wearing a tailored shirt that fit snugly across his chest and shoulders, paired with pressed slacks.
His hair was neatly styled, and he carried himself with the kind of confidence that made it clear he’d spent time in front of the mirror. He smiled as he greeted me, kissed my cheek lightly, and said, “You look even better in person.” I admit, my nerves settled just a little after that. Compliments are nice when they feel genuine, and for the moment, his did.
The restaurant was one I’d chosen, a cozy Italian place tucked away on a quiet street. Warm lighting, soft music, the smell of garlic and fresh bread wafting through the air—it felt like the kind of spot where conversations could flow easily. I was hopeful.
We were seated quickly at a small table near the back, away from the bustling bar area. The first fifteen minutes were promising. David asked me about my job, my hobbies, and what kind of movies I liked.
He listened, nodded, and even cracked a couple of light jokes that weren’t half bad. I remember thinking, Okay, this isn’t so bad. But then something shifted.
The conversation started veering in one direction—his gym routine. He mentioned casually that he worked out six days a week. I smiled and said, “That’s dedication,” expecting the topic to pass.
But instead of moving on, he leaned forward and began describing his exact workout regimen in painstaking detail. Sets, reps, weights, cardio intervals. He listed his macros, his supplements, even his preferred brand of protein powder.
At first, I tried to listen politely, throwing in the occasional “Oh, wow” and “That’s impressive.” But as the minutes stretched into nearly half an hour of gym talk, I realized this was no tangent. This was his favorite subject, maybe his only subject. He barely asked me a single follow-up question about anything I’d said earlier.
It wasn’t a conversation; it was a monologue. When the server brought bread to the table, David waved it away with a shake of his head, though I gratefully tore off a piece. He watched me butter it with a faint look of disapproval, though he didn’t say anything.
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