Mark seemed normal at first.
He looked like his pictures, was polite, and even opened doors for me.
But **twenty minutes in**, I realized I was on a date with a **walking red flag factory.**
He wouldn’t shut up about his **gym routine**, how much he could bench, and—my personal favorite—how you could “tell how much self-respect someone has by what’s on their plate.”
He ordered **grilled fish, no sides.**
I happily ordered **truffle gnocchi.**
But the real fun started when the server brought the dessert menu.
Mark reached over and **shut it.**
*”She’ll pass. She’s had enough.”*
I blinked. *Excuse me?*
*”Actually,”* I said, staring him down, *”I’d like to see the menu.”*
He **smirked** and shook his head.
*”Dessert is just empty calories, sweetheart. I like skinny women.”*
Now, I **could’ve** just walked out.
But where’s the fun in that?
Instead, I **smiled sweetly.**
*”You’re right, Mark. Dessert **is** a privilege.”*
Then I waved the server over.
*”We’ll take one of everything, please.”*
Mark’s **smirk vanished.**
*”W-what?!”*
*”Oh, don’t worry. I’ll pay,”* I said, pulling out my card. *”I wouldn’t want you to feel guilty watching me enjoy something you’ll never allow yourself to have.”*
Twenty minutes later, in chocolate lava cake, crème brûlée, tiramisu, and cheesecake.
And I took my **sweet, sweet time.**
Mark sat there, seething, arms crossed.
*”Are you done?”* he finally snapped.
I licked the spoon dramatically.
*”Nope!”*
And then, I **boxed up everything I didn’t finish**—for later.
I left him with **the bill** and a **lesson in humility.**
And the best part?
I enjoyed every. Single. Bite.