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. I shrugged it off.
Dinner orders came next. I chose the truffle gnocchi, a dish I’d had before and loved. David, without even looking at the menu, ordered grilled fish with no sides, no sauces. Just fish. I was mildly amused, thinking he was one of those health-obsessed types, but I didn’t expect what came next.
As the server walked away, David glanced at my plate choice and said, “You can tell how much self-respect someone has by what’s on their plate.”
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. His tone was casual, like he thought he was dropping some profound truth. I laughed lightly, more out of discomfort than amusement, and said, “Well, I guess that means I have no self-respect because I really love gnocchi.” I tried to turn it into a joke, but the comment lingered in my mind like a bad aftertaste.
Dinner went on much the same. More gym stories, more unsolicited observations about how most people let themselves go, how discipline was the key to life. Every time I tried to steer the conversation toward something else—travel, books, even the weather—he’d somehow circle back to the gym. I started counting how many times he said the word “discipline.” I lost track after fifteen.
The real turning point came when the server returned with the dessert menu. I was excited; Italian restaurants always had the best sweets. I hadn’t even touched the menu when David reached across the table, closed it, and handed it back to the server with a dismissive wave.
“She’ll pass,” he said smoothly. “She’s had enough.”
For a moment, I genuinely thought I’d misheard him. Surely, he hadn’t just ordered for me like I was a child.
“Actually,” I said, my voice firmer than I expected, “I’d like to see the menu.”
David looked at me, unfazed. “Dessert is just empty calories, sweetheart. I prefer skinny women.”
The word “sweetheart” dripped with condescension, not warmth. My cheeks flushed, not with embarrassment but with something closer to anger. He barely knew me, and already he was policing what I could eat, framing it as if my body was supposed to be curated for his approval.
In that moment, I had a choice. I could let his comment ruin the evening, or I could take control of it. I glanced around the restaurant, and my eyes landed on two older women sitting a few tables behind us. They were dressed elegantly, sipping wine, clearly enjoying a night out together. Inspiration struck.
I turned to the server, who was hovering nearby, caught between confusion and awkwardness. With a smile, I said, “Could you please send a couple of desserts, tiramisu and panna cotta, maybe? to those lovely ladies over there.”
The server’s face lit up, as if relieved to be part of something lighter. “Of course,” he said, and hurried off.
David blinked at me, clearly not expecting that response. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low, almost sharp.
“Celebrating,” I said simply. Then I stood up, gathered my glass of wine, and walked over to the women’s table.
They looked surprised when I asked if I could join them, but one of them, a silver-haired woman with kind eyes, pulled out the empty chair with a smile. “Of course, dear,” she said. “We’d love the company.”
Within minutes, I was laughing and chatting with them as if we’d known each other for years. They told me about their travels through Italy, their long friendship, and the joys of eating dessert without guilt. When the tiramisu and panna cotta arrived, we shared bites across the table, savoring every sweet spoonful.
I didn’t look back at David right away, but eventually, curiosity got the better of me. He was still sitting at our table, arms crossed, jaw tight, staring at his untouched fish. Around us, other diners had noticed the shift in dynamics, and more than a few smiled in my direction.
At one point, the woman with silver hair raised her glass toward me and said, “You made the right choice, darling.” The other chimed in, “A man who tells you what to eat on a first date isn’t worth a second.” We clinked glasses, and I felt a quiet confidence settle over me.
For the rest of the evening, I didn’t think about David much at all. I thought about how good it felt to stand up for myself without anger, to take an awkward, uncomfortable situation and turn it into something joyful. By the time I finally left the restaurant, hugging the women goodbye and promising to stay in touch, I felt lighter than I had in months.
David never texted me again, and I certainly didn’t reach out. But that night became a story I told often—part cautionary tale, part triumphant anecdote. Because yes, first dates can be awkward. But sometimes, if you’re willing to choose yourself, they can also be the moment you realize how much confidence you actually have.
And honestly? Dessert never tasted so sweet.
