I got to the restaurant a bit early which was highly unlike me. I am far more likely to accidentally set a spoon on fire[3] or run into a screen door than I am to be anywhere early. I should have known this was a harbinger of bad things to come.

I recognized Gavin as soon as he walked in. When he noticed me and waved, I knew this was going to be a disaster. Not a Titanic-style disaster, more like I ate bad cheese and threw up on a bus type of disaster. He sat down and began prattling on about his day, huffing and puffing and looking generally discombobulated. He had a nervous frenetic energy that I normally associated with chihuahuas or people on coke. I nodded along politely hoping he would stop talking long enough to ask how I was doing. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people with nervous energy. Not only is it highly uncomfortable, I am forced to sit there wondering what the fuck is going on. The only time I get nervous is when I think I might pee myself while waiting in line for the ladies’ room.

Since I had gotten there early I had plenty of time to look at the menu. I was ready to eat my way through a cheese plate and then get the fuck out of there.

“Should we get a bottle of wine?” Gavin said as he wiped sweat off his forehead. I didn’t know why he was sweating. It was the middle of November. “Uh, I think I’m good with a glass.” “I think we should get a bottle. We’ll both have 2 glasses.” “I think I’ll just have one,” I responded. “In that case, I’ll have three,” he replied.

He proceeded to order a $148 bottle of wine. What in the actual fuck? What kind of bat shit weirdo orders an expensive bottle of wine on a Tinder date? If we had met IRL and already established we liked each other or if this was our second date, then yes, I could see that. But at this stage in the game, it just seemed nuts.

I was tempted to excuse myself to the bathroom and never come back. But even I wasn’t that cold. Instead I just silently gritted my teeth and hoped that didn’t exacerbate my TMJ.

He proceeded to grill me on all manner of minutiae while grinning like a hyena. Why did I choose to paint my nails pink? Why that shade of pink? Is it because I want to look girly? How did I decide on the length? Why did I choose to live in Williamsburg? Do I like beards? Do I like hipsters? Why don’t I drink beer? But aren’t those people annoying? But why? Why? Why? Why?

“Sometimes Gavin there isn’t a reason why,” I snapped.

“I just think there’s always a deeper reason to everything, people just don’t want to admit it.”

“Alright, whatever.” The reason I painted my nails pink is because I saw the fucking color and thought this looks cute. It was not because my underlying daddy issues gave me a predilection for pink nail polish.

“So, you must have a thing for man buns?” he asked. Then he laughed hysterically as if he was super original for making fun of the “hipster” Williamsburg.

I took a sip of my wine and took a bored look around the restaurant, refusing to indulge in his idiocy.

“You’re not laughing at any of my jokes,” he replied in a baby voice while making an exaggerated sad face. I wanted nothing more than to tell him to eat a dick, but I decided to take a more straightforward approach.

“Because they aren’t funny,” I replied with a straight face.

“Aww, I’m just trying to impress you. Do you want dessert?”

“No, I really need to go home soon. I’ll be right back. I have to go to the ladies’ room,” I responded. “I had seen the waiter hovering near the restrooms, so I made a beeline for him.

“We’re ready for the check whenever you have chance,” I said sweetly.

“Sure thing.”

But alas I was foiled again. As I returned to the table, I saw that Gavin had a menu next to him.

“I ordered a chocolate cake,” he said gleefully.

I fucking hated this guy.

When the cake came out, his annoying behavior continued.

“How is it?” he asked between mouthfuls of cake.

“It’s OK,” I said despondently.

“Just OK?! It’s the best chocolate cake. Why don’t you like it?”

This line of questioning went on for another few minutes as he continued to prod me about why I didn’t like the cake, what kind of cake do I like, how is it possible that I didn’t like this cake, feigning sadness because I didn’t like it and telling me it hurt his feelings. You’d think he literally milked the cow, milled the flour and created the recipe himself he was so offended.

“Because I don’t fucking like it!” I snapped irritably.

I wanted to take the dish and smash it on his head. Or maybe my head so I could dull the pain of this date.

We finally left (he insisted on paying) and I attempted to walk myself to the subway but Gavin would have none of it.

“I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t walk you,” he said.

I started speed walking hoping to get this over as soon as possible. It was the same feeling I had when I got a pap smear. I just wanted it to be over.

“Oh look, there’s that bar I was telling you about!” Gavin said excitedly. “Let’s go!”

WHAT. THE. FUCK. This man had obviously never heard of social cues.

“No, I’m going home.”

“You promised me, you’d come!”

Yes, he had mentioned a bar and suggested we go after, but seeing as I wanted to teleport to another dimension during the entire date I definitely did not agree to going out to another bar with this buffoon.

“No, I fucking didn’t. I am going home. Good night.” I walked away as he continued to plead with me to come.

As I entered the subway station, I inhaled the comforting scent of dirt, urine, and rat feces. Finally, I was safe, away from that horrific specimen of a human being. I wondered if he was still a virgin. I simply couldn’t imagine anyone offering their vagina to him. It was too cringeworthy for me to even think about.

I received a text as soon as I was back above ground.

“I had a great time with you Rachel. I’d love to see you again.”

AHHHHHHH!!! I wanted to hurl my phone onto the ground. But seeing as that would be a costly decision, I chose instead to do something I have never done before. Ghost him. I deleted his text and blocked his number, thanking God I live in an age where I could do something like block a number.

But turns out Gavin would not be that easily deterred. Two days later I received the following in my email.

It was fucking invoice. Complete with routing routing number, bank account number and swift code. Had I been an experienced hacker, I could have easily swindled him. Lucky for him, I am not. Not only did this guy Google me to find my email, he spent the time drawing up the invoice, taking a photo of the receipt, uploading it, then embedding it along with a photo of himself (which I have removed).

Does this fool actually think I am going to give him money for the $148 bottle of wine that I didn’t even want?

I moved the email into a folder I call “nonsense” and filed it away for another day. A day when I would write a story about the time a date sent me an invoice.

Follow on Medium at Rachel Khona and on Instagram @ rachelkhona

UPDATE: To answer many of the comments, this happened a long time ago. It’s just a funny story. It’s not that deep or emotionally traumatizing I am with someone else now who is amazing, (sorry hurt meninists/trolls), who I love dearly, and who understands me when I say “no”. So it’s all good. Yes, I met him on Tinder. And no, he never sent me an invoice.

[1] Seriously why do people even bother with online dating if they don’t want to fill anything out? How can I discern whether you too share a love of fart jokes and avocado fries if you don’t tell me?!

[2] Unless it’s a southern accent. I could listen to Luke Bryan talking about toe lint.

[3] True story.

Follow on IG @ rachelkhona