I didn’t think it was too bad, at first, walking home alone at 9:45. I couldn’t pick out anything really terrible.
But later, I was angry. Later, I cried. Later, I felt totally shitty.
I asked my friends. Am I exaggerating? Am I being too picky? Too exacting? Are my standards too high? No!, they cried. He was a total douche. Douchebag McGee.
He shouldn’t have made me wait with him outside in the freezing wind while he smoked. He should have taken you to the coffee shop first and then gone out, they said. This isn’t me speaking, you understand, it’s them.
He should have noticed when I was shivering and my teeth were chattering. He shouldn’t have made us walk around the block, past all the perfectly fine cafes, to see if there was anything better. We should have gone in. He should have led the conversation more. He should have asked about me and found our common ground, rather than let me do it. He should have complimented me, like I did to him.
He should have put me in a cab home, if he wasn’t going to walk me. He should have called to make sure I got home safe after walking for fifteen minutes in the dark. He shouldn’t have gone to see his friend after and told me that’s what he would do, as if at the end, he wasn’t done with his evening but he was done with me.
And definitely, definitely, he shouldn’t have said, “Well, I have nothing else to say,” and decided we should leave.
And honestly, who shakes hands at the end of a date?
adoxographically 