Chapter 2: Filters, Fights, and Face-Offs

I watched as she rearranged all the plates and bowls on the table, lining them up just so, then whipped out her phone and started snapping pictures from every angle. She stood up, crouched down, moved a soy sauce dish for better lighting. A couple girls at the next table gave her nods of approval. Apparently, we were in the presence of a true #Foodie.

She handed me her phone and said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “I like to document my life—help me take a few more pics.”

No waiting for an answer—she just pushed the phone into my hand, already coaching me on angles and filters.

What could I do, say no? So I snapped away, trying to frame the shots just right. A few diners glanced over, probably thinking I was her Instagram boyfriend. I wondered if I should smile or just disappear into the exposed brick.

After a dozen or so shots, she nodded in satisfaction: “Your photography skills are okay. Let’s eat.”

She barely looked at most of them—just flicked through, saved the best, and posted to her story. Priorities.

During the meal, she nitpicked everything: this dish wasn’t to her taste, that sashimi’s texture was off, not as good as the one she had in Atlanta… She dissected every bite with her chopsticks, like a reality show judge. Meanwhile, I barely tasted a thing.

If you’ve never had someone complain nonstop while you’re eating, let me tell you—it kills your appetite.

I mostly pushed my food around, glancing at the other tables with envy. At least their dates were laughing.

Maybe my discomfort showed, because she suddenly asked, “I usually spend a lot. Are you unhappy I picked this place?”

She looked at me with a mix of curiosity and challenge, like she was daring me to call her out.

I shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Of course not.” But my wallet definitely felt lighter already.

She said, “Honestly, I was a little surprised you agreed so quickly when I suggested this restaurant.” She tilted her head, searching my face for weakness—waiting for me to admit I was out of my depth.

Oh, so she thought I couldn’t afford it. That hit like a backhanded compliment. I chuckled, even though I wanted to roll my eyes.

Truth was, I wasn’t on blind dates because I was desperate. I liked getting to know someone’s personality, hobbies, values, so I never told the matchmaker my real financial situation.

The matchmaker was my mom’s old friend, the kind who still bakes pound cake for church socials and thinks every bachelor needs saving. I always kept things vague, because I didn’t want to date someone who only cared about my job title or bank account.

She asked me some basic questions, and I answered half-heartedly. I could feel myself drifting, like I was on autopilot during a Zoom call. "What do you do for fun?" "Uh, I read, I guess."

It was obvious she wasn’t interested. She scrolled her phone between bites, replying to texts. I got the feeling I was just a pit stop on her Saturday itinerary.

Fine by me—I didn’t think we were a match either. Relief washed over me. At least I wouldn’t have to fake-laugh through dessert.

After eating, she wiped her mouth and laid her cards on the table. She dabbed at her lips with her napkin, then looked up with this businesslike air—like she was about to close on a house.

“I’ll be blunt. On blind dates, hard requirements matter. Not to brag, but you can probably guess how many people are chasing me. But for men, looks and height are just bonuses.”

“There’s a saying I really agree with: ‘Marriage is a woman’s second life.’”

She leaned back, arms crossed. If there was a script for gold-digger characters on TV, she was reading straight from it.

I smiled and let her finish, then asked, “You want a man with a house, a car, and savings—do you have those things yourself?”

She didn’t blink. “I don’t. That’s why I want to find a husband who’s financially secure and can support me. If I had all that, why would I need a man?”

She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I asked, “If a man has everything, but wants you to stay home to do laundry, cook, and take care of kids, would you do it?”

I watched her closely, curious if she’d even blink.

She scoffed, looking at me like I was nuts: “Are you kidding? Who does that anymore?” Her tone was so dismissive, it was almost impressive—like I’d asked her to churn butter.

“If you’re not willing, then what does the man get out of it?” I tried to keep my voice even, but I couldn’t help the edge that crept in.

My tone wasn’t exactly friendly, and her face instantly soured. Her eyes narrowed, lips pursed. It was clear I’d crossed some invisible line.