I bury my face in the drinks list.
This date is going just about exactly as expected.
34
The Siege of Vienna
Ivy
What is happening?
He’s attractive. Smart. Lovely with Lucy. Capable of forming full sentences in most situations. And yet here we are, three minutes into dinner, and he’s delivered a lecture on the Siege of Vienna like this is some sort of historically-themed speed date and I’m about to be tested on key dates and bean filtration methods.
Is it me?
Am I radiatingPlease talk about early coffee culture at lengthenergy?
I shift in my seat and immediately regret it. The trousers have ridden even further up than before, and I swear if I breathe too deeply, I’ll have to get them surgically removed. My knickers are no longer involved in the evening. They’ve been left behind. Lost in action.
I try to subtly adjust myself. There's no way to do it gracefully. I nudge, twist, clench slightly, then give up and take a sip of water while pretending I’m just terribly,terriblyinterested in the candle.
Across from me, Theo is staring down at the menu like it’s written in Morse code. He still looks handsome, in that nervous, floppy-haired way. But he also looks like he might bolt at any moment or begin reciting theHistory of Cutlery in Western Europe.
He wasn’t like this before.
For three months, we’ve been full of banter and cake and the kind of easy chemistry that made me think maybe, just maybe, this could turn into something. I’ve laughed more with him in the past ninety days than I have in the past two years combined. He made me feel... seen. Wanted. Like maybe being a bit of a mess with strong opinions and complicated feelings didn’t automatically put me in the 'lovely but not relationship material' box.
But now? Now he’s barely looked at me.
Maybe I pushed this. Maybe I misread everything.
Maybe I was just convenient—a friend, a babysitter, someone who got a bit too comfortable and mistook kindness for something else.
And, of course, I chosetonightto wedge myself into trousers that feel like an emotional support compression garment. I can’t sit properly. I’m terrified to stand. My thighs are trapped in a slow, squeaky death grip. Even my napkin is judging me.
Theo’s still staring at the menu like he’s about to draft legal amendments to it.
I clear my throat and try to sound breezy. “Thinking of suing the chef, or...?”
He blinks up, startled. “What? No. Sorry. I was just—trying to decode the ‘beetroot textures.’ Is that a sauce? A sculpture? A warning?”
I smile, but it feels tight. I want to askWhat’s going on?but instead I say, “You know, if I spontaneously combust, I’d like you to tell people it was the trousers.”
He chuckles softly, but it fades fast. He’s clearly trying, and that almost makes it worse. I can feel the weight of both of us overcompensating—like we’re tiptoeing around something neither of us wants to admit out loud: that this... isn’t working.
Not tonight.
I sip my water. Somewhere behind us, someone’s laughing—actual, carefree laughter—and I want to throw my bread roll at them.
This isn’t what I pictured. I thought our first date would be all spark and banter and knees bumping under the table. But instead, we’re here in this stiff curated restaurant, both choking on nerves and unmet expectations.
The waiter arrives to take our order. Theo panics and points at the tasting menu. I do the same, because it’s easier than deciding whether I want duck or a beef dish I can't even pronounce.
We both smile at the waiter like everything’s fine.
It’s not fine.
I think we’re both realising it at the same time.
