"Emma?"
The voice was different than she expected - gruffer, less warm. She looked up to see a man standing at her table. His hair was shorter than in his profile pictures, his build stockier, and his face held a permanent smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Simon," she said, standing awkwardly to shake his hand.
"Sorry I'm late. Traffic was insane," he said, sliding into the chair opposite her without waiting for an invitation.
"That's okay," she replied, sitting back down and forcing a polite smile.
For the first few minutes, the conversation was harmless. They exchanged pleasantries about their jobs and favorite TV shows. But soon, the cracks began to show.
"You know," Simon began, leaning back in his chair, "it's really hard to meet someone normal these days. Women are so shallow. They only care about money or looks." He gave her a pointed glance, as if she should feel flattered to be exempt from this sweeping judgment.
Emma raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not like other guys," he continued, grinning. "I actually value intelligence. But you'd be surprised how many women out there are just... airheads."
The smile froze on her face. He kept talking, steering the conversation toward his exes, whom he referred to as "crazy" and "clingy," and made a few offhand remarks about how women were "too emotional" to handle constructive criticism.
Emma's gut churned. Every word solidified her decision to end the evening as quickly as possible. She waited for a pause in his monologue before interrupting.
"Simon, I appreciate you coming out, but I don't think this is a good fit," she said, standing up.
His smirk faltered, replaced by confusion. "Wait, you're leaving? Just like that?"
"Yeah," Emma said, grabbing her bag. "Thanks for your time."
She left the café without looking back, stepping into the cool night air and breathing deeply.