“Gracie? Gracie? Hi,” said the man who Gracie could only assume was her Tinder date.

She thought about pretending she wasn’t herself. She thought about acting like she’d entered Red Gravy, their agreed upon restaurant, by mistake, but the dining room was well-lit, and, as she was slowly realizing, unlike her date, her online dating profile actually had her real picture on it. She hated being rude and she also hated looking like an idiot, which she imagined she undoubtedly did, standing by the entrance staring off into the distance while the hostess tried to lead her to her date, who conveniently was half-sitting, half-standing and waving his hands over his head like they were in a crowded stadium, hollering her name.

She closed her eyes and sighed. Maybe it won’t be that bad. Don’t be negative; you don’t even know the guy, she was telling herself. Now or never. She nodded at the hostess to lead her on.

In the twenty paces it took for her to reach their table, she decided maybe he was pretty cute after all, and maybe she could forgive the fact that his Tinder photos were heavily filtered, probably PhotoShopped, and definitely taken at complimentary angles. Hey, at least the guy knows his angles, amirite? she thought, smiling as she reached him.

He jumped up, practically out of his skin in excitement. Woah, Nelly! “Hi there,” she said, sticking out her hand for a shake.

“Hi, oh, hello, Gracie. I’m Christopher,” he said, halfway hugging her, halfway shaking her hand. 100% embarrassing.

They sat down across from one another. His eyes were gleaming in the way that signaled that he either wanted to eat her or fuck her, and his left knee was bouncing up and down manically. He was shorter than she thought he would be. Shorter than her if she wore heels, which were, let’s face it, her favorite outfit-finishing look. His skin was shiny around his hairline and she guessed correctly that was because he used too much hair gel in anticipation of their date. But he had soft eyes and a kind smile that revealed straight white teeth. He had clean fingernails and he smelled good. He smelled like something expensive. She sure as shit liked that.

“Hi, guys, I’m Whitney. I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you some drinks?” asked the too-friendly waitress.

She must be new. Gracie opened her mouth to order.

Christopher held up a finger and said, “Two gin and tonics, please,” and winked.

She wasn’t sure if it was directed at her or the waitress and she decided she didn’t care. He ordered for her and while some women may like his assertiveness, she though he over-stepped his bounds. Strike one.

Whitney nodded and walked away. He directed his thousand watt smile at her and said, “I hope that was okay. You look like a girl who can handle a stiff one, if you know what I mean.”

She smiled through her growing rage. In one fell swoop, he managed to call her, Gracie, a 31 year old woman, a girl and come up with a weak as shit double entendre. Really?

“No worries. So, Chris, what do you do?” she asked, changing the subject.

His eyes briefly narrowed and he said, “It’s Christopher, please, and I’m self-employed.”

Uh-oh, here we go. She didn’t say anything.

“I have a dog-walking business. I guess I’m a freelance dog-walker,” he explained.

She raised her eyebrows. “Freelance? Aren’t they all, um, freelance?”

“Oh no, no, see that’s what everyone thinks, but the dog walking world is dog-eat-dog, if you don’t mind the pun. You either get out there and roll with the bitches or you get bit.”

“Oh, cool,” she said as Whitney put their drinks in front of them. Thank God for alcohol.

Whitney smiled and took out her notepad. “So, are you ready to order?”

Shit. Gracie hadn’t even looked at the menu yet. But then Christopher said yes anyway.

“We’ll both have the house salad, dressing on the side. I’ll have the veal parmesan and the lady will have the spaghetti and white clam sauce,” he said, glancing from Whitney to Gracie.

Whitney could feel the waves of anger that were coming off of Gracie—waves that apparently Christopher were oblivious to. She felt totally awkward. She didn’t really know if she should ask Gracie if that was okay or not, so she just smiled and said, “Coming right up!” as she walked toward the kitchen.

So he had ordered for her twice now. That must be his thing. That must be how a short man shows dominance. At least she liked clam sauce. Still, strike two.

They sat in awkward silence until their salads came and she felt relieved that there was finally something else to focus on other than Christopher and his arrogance.

“So, Gracie, where do you work?” he asked with a mouth full of spinach and peppers.

“I’m a prosecutor for the City of New York,” she said evenly.

“Tough job, tough job.”

“Yep.”

“Not really a woman’s world.”

She folded her arms and placed them on the table, clenching the flesh of her biceps in her hands to kep from losing her mind. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

“Oh well it’s hard, tough work. And I can imagine that you deal with violence and such and those sensitive subjects can take a toll on a woman’s psyche. It’s science,” he said, still chomping down on his salad while hers remained untouched.

She urged him to go on with her eyes.

“You know, with your maternal instinct and stuff. It’s hard for women to fully separate what happened to someone else, or what atrocity someone else committed, from themselves. You go all mushy.”

Rage. She felt rage. “And you know this from you experience as a freelance dog walker?”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m just stating fact, baby. Just enjoy that career while you can because as soon as you’re my wife, you’ll be staying home where you belong.”

Strike three.

She didn’t say a word. He didn’t deserve it. She just got up and walked out. She made it to the corner before she started running.