Next, he made a joke about my weight.
A joke.
As if he should talk with his beer belly and growing bald spot.
Not that I'm shallow.
I really am not.
A man doesn't have to be a ten.
Hell, neither am I.
But come on.
At least have a personality.
At least pretend you're interested in the woman sitting across from you.
At least don't compare calorie counts on appetizers.
Which he did.
Out loud.
“I'm just trying to help,” he'd said.
Help.
Right.
I should've left then.Instead, I stayed because apparently I hate myself.And good dates are hard to find.
“You know,” he says now, leaning back smugly, “women are usually thrilled to go out with me.”
I blink.
“Are they?Cool.”
He laughs like I'm joking.
I'm not.
“I run my own accounting business.”
“Congratulations?”
“I’m quite a catch.I’ve never been divorced.”
“Which also means you’ve never been married, I take it?”
He frowns.
“I don't follow.”
Clearly.
I sigh into my margarita.
