We met on a dating site. He seemed like the man I’d been waiting for: intelligent, polite, gifted with words. We could talk for hours; I found myself smiling at my phone as I reread his messages. He made me feel needed and special.
So when he finally asked me out, I said yes without hesitation. My heart hammered as I prepared—curled my hair, did my makeup, and put on my best dress. I told myself this night might change my life.
I walked into the restaurant trying to look confident, but the moment I saw him everything shifted. He greeted me not with warmth but with a long, contemptuous stare, scanning me from head to toe as if I were something unpleasant. His eyes were cold and disgusted.
My hands trembled as I approached, but I kept my voice steady. “Hello.”
He sneered. “What are you wearing?” he said, eyeing my dress. “Your sides are sticking out. Your belly is showing. Aren’t you ashamed?”
Something snapped in my chest. I managed, “This is the best I own.”
He laughed—loud and cruel—so everyone turned to look. “This is your best? God, I dread to think what the rest of you wear. Why did you even message me? Do you really think people like me date people like you? I’m not paying. I saw you in person—I already regret it.”
His words landed like blows. This was not the man who had written about dreams and tenderness. He mocked me, mimicking my texts in a nasty voice: “‘Darling, I miss you, I want to see you…’” He spat the lines as if they were ridiculous. “You wanted me to see your pathetic face? I’m disgusted sitting next to you.”
Tears rose, but they were quickly replaced by a cold, bright anger. I refused to be his victim.
A waiter passed with a tray carrying a steaming bowl of tom yum—red, fragrant, its heat rising in fragrant plumes of lemongrass and chili. On impulse I grabbed the bowl, lifted it, and poured everything over his head.
There was a shriek. He jumped up, hands flying to his face as the spicy broth soaked his hair and ran down his shirt. The restaurant went silent; the sharp, citrusy smell of the soup cut through the air. A nervous chuckle rippled from a nearby table.
I straightened, smoothing my dress, and looked down at him. My voice was low and steady. “A man will pay for everything.”
Then I turned and walked away—no more pleading, no more pretending.
