Published: 2025-08-28

Her name is Brenda, she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life, and tonight we are having a date. I’m a little nervous; I’ve been out of the game for so long, and I have forgotten how to do this stuff. I met Brenda at work; everybody knows Brenda at work. She is the woman that men want to date and other women want to be. She is flawless, which begs the question, why did she agree to date me? I’d like to say I know the reason, but I actually don’t. Maybe she has a thing for middle-aged men who spend their day stuck in a cubicle, but I doubt it. Whatever the reason, tonight I’m taking her to the best French restaurant money can buy. Le Petit Paris. Which, honestly, is not that good…

I have not worn this suit since my aunt Martha’s funeral; it’s the only suit I’ve owned for years, and I don’t plan on changing that now. I look good in it, though. I think, I’m not sure. Probably not.

The host asks me for my reservation. Williams, Michael. Table for two. The host looks me up and down; I knew I looked good in this suit. “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t see your companion. Wouldn’t you prefer a table for one?” The host says. That’s insulting. She is a busy woman; she’ll be here when she is here. Now, give me my table or I’ll kick your ass. “She’ll be here in a moment.” I say. “I am very sorry to insist, sir, but it’s restaurant policy to offer a table only to those present.” The host says. Look, pal, I’m starting to grow tired of you. Next thing you say, and my feet will have an affair with your bottom. Now beat it. “I’ll take a table for two. Here’s $20. Keep up the good work.” I say. “Very well, sir. Please come with me.”

The suit did its magic once again. Now that I remember, I got a date at Aunt Martha’s funeral. Granted, she only had one leg, and we only went to McDonald’s, but that still counts.

I like this table. Small, round table in a corner, good illumination too, it makes me feel like an Italian gangster. You know, “Just when I think I’m out, they pull me back in.” Nobody will be shooting me in the back tonight, that’s for sure.

The servers don’t love the idea of me sitting alone at a table for two, but I don’t care. Besides, Brenda will be here any minute. I ask for the wine menu. Brenda likes French wine; the Californian and Chilean stuff is OK if you want to get wasted and have only a couple of bucks, but a refined woman like Brenda will always prefer French. Red, not white, of course. I’ll take a Château Beauvillage. I hope she likes it, or I’ll look like an idiot. “Excellent choice, sir. I’ll be back with you in a moment.”

I can not believe I’m having a date with Brenda. The first time I spoke to her, I thought she would be mean or ignore me, but it was not the case; she was warm and friendly and funny and had a beautiful smile on her face; she always does. I wonder if I should ask her for a photo together? I would put it in the entryway table, next to my mother’s ashes. You know Mom? I wish you could meet her…

The server interrupted my inner monologue, “Here’s your wine, sir. I hope you enjoy it.” He said. Bastard. “I couldn’t help but notice you are by yourself, sir. Wouldn’t you perhaps feel more comfortable in a table for one?” These guys are pests. “Thank you, but I’m waiting for someone.” The guy keeps using fancy vocabulary to tell me to get the fuck out of the table, until I give him a $20 bill. “Enjoy your evening, sir.” He says. Yeah, I will when you die. Parasite.

What has society become? We, private citizens, cannot even sit in a restaurant without being harassed. I wouldn’t be harassed if I were a woman; nobody asks women for money. This persecution against men has to stop. And these foreign guys… Who do they think they are to talk to me like that? I wish somebody taught them a lesson.

I take my glass and fill it halfway. I gave a $20 bill to that idiot standing over there; he should be the one pouring it. Lazy bastard. A bottle of this stuff is over $200; it better be good. It’s not. I call the server; something is wrong with my wine. “I deeply apologize, sir. May I taste it to verify what the problem is?” I tell him to knock himself out. “I’m sorry, sir, but the wine seems to be perfect.” I’m starting to grow tired of this guy's attitude. “Look, pal, I say it’s not perfect, and I paid $200 for this crap, so I’m right, because I’m the customer, and the customer is always right. Now, if you could be so kind as to take it back and give me a new bottle, or better yet, take it off my bill, I would be very pleased and everything would be forgotten.”

Long story short, I was kicked out of the restaurant after being forced to pay the bill. It didn’t look like it, but those guys were packing some muscle; fucking immigrants. The worst part? As I am getting up and removing the dust off my suit, she walks past me. Brenda? I say. She turns back and says, “Hi… Michael… Nice suit.” I try to play it cool, “Thanks. You know. I’m ready for dinner.” I say. My butt hurts. “Me too. I’ll see you inside then.” She smiles at me and enters the restaurant. What a gorgeous woman. I wonder if she likes Château Beauvillage?

THE END.