Page 3 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Red flag one: he responded to my message within an hour.

Not in a “wow, he’s so enthusiastic” way. This man replied like he’d been hovering in the shadows with push notifications on, shirt off, probably sitting in the dark with his dick in one hand and a motivational podcast about hustle culture in the other. He used three emojis in one sentence and called me “angel.”

Not sweetheart. Not babe. Angel. Like I fell off a stripper pole and landed on my frontal lobe.

Red flag two: he didn’t want to meet somewhere public.

“It’s just so loud in coffee shops,” he said, as if espresso machines judged him with their hisses and found him lacking. “How about this place I know with great wings?”

Turns out “place I know” is a place I know. A shitty bar with a peeling NASCAR decal on the window, two broken stools, and a menu written entirely in grease. It smells like piss, pool chalk, and the crushing weight of unpaid child support.

So obviously, I agreed.

Why? Because I’m generous. I give them four dates, minimum. Time to show me a soul under the sleaze. A spark of decency. Maybe a trauma-informed apology. A shred of redemption. Unless they trigger the kill clause: excessive rudeness, sexual aggression, or saying “females” like they’re listing livestock.

Red flag three: he was already two beers in when I arrived.

Derik (that’s his name, of course it fucking is) is waiting inside, and has the audacity to look me up and down like I’m the one who smells like urinal cake and monster truck divorce.

“You’re late,” he says, without standing up. His breath could melt the varnish off the bar. “But I forgive you.” He smirks. He thinks he’s being charming.

I smile back, just enough to keep his blood pressure steady. “You ordered without me?” I ask.

“Gotta establish dominance.” He winks. “Alpha mindset.”

I stare at him for a beat too long, imagining the precise pressure needed to break a beer bottle against someone’s face without getting glass in the eyes. Not that I’d do it here. I have standards.

“Damn,” he says. “Didn’t expect you to be this curvy.”

I smile. Wide. Bright. All teeth. “Aw. That’s so sweet. I didn’t expect you to look like someone’s divorced cousin who still DJs high school reunions.”

He laughs, like I’m joking.

I’m not.

I slide onto the stool. It wobbles like it’s given up on its will to live.

“You didn’t tell me it was a bar,” I say, gently.

He shrugs. “You didn’t ask.”

I breathe in through my nose. The smell is worse now. Sausage and entitlement. “Well,” I say sweetly, “I guess it’s good you’re not trying to impress me.”

He doesn’t catch the tone. Of course he doesn’t. This is a man who thinks sarcasm is a color. He waves the bartender down with two fingers and a “Yo, doll.” I order a ginger ale. He orders a pitcher. For himself.

“So you into, like, astrology and shit?” he asks.

“Only when Mercury’s in retrograde and I need someone to blame for my rage.” I sip my drink. “Why?”

He shrugs. “My ex used to say Scorpios were manipulative bitches. You give off those vibes.”

Oh good. A walking reddit thread in jeans.

“Charming,” I say, and file it under Red Flag Four: Openly trashes exes on a first date.

The food arrives. He’d ordered wings with extra sauce and proceeds to eat like a raccoon fighting a possum over a corn dog in an alley.

“You got nice lips,” he says, halfway through his third wing. “Bet you give killer head.”

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