The air in the burger joint was thick with the scent of fried food and my own growing irritation. I tapped my stiletto-clad foot against the tiled floor, the rhythmic click a counterpoint to the insistent ticking of the clock in my head. Brielle was an hour late. An hour I'd spent squeezed into a dress that felt like a second skin and makeup that felt like a mask. All for her, and her specific, shallow tastes.

Finally, she appeared, a vision in white and six-inch heels, speed-walking across the street like a fashion-forward gazelle. Her apologies were as performative as her carefully coiffed strawberry-blonde hair. "Sorry I'm late! I just. . . wanted to look good for you." My eyes rolled so far back, I practically saw my brain. Then came the kicker: "Can we not eat here? It's way too many carbs."

Just kill me now. I managed to steer the conversation, and her, towards my place, offering the unappealing option of a chicken salad to avoid the dreaded pancakes. The walk back was a silent agony, punctuated only by our awkwardly held hands. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and dark blue, a stark contrast to the bright red of my dress and the fiery impatience within me.

After a torturous three hours of salad and forced conversation, we finally made it upstairs. And then, the expected, the inevitable. She was pressed against my bedroom wall, moaning my name, while I, detached, helped her reach her climax. Once she calmed, I carried her to the bed, her exhaustion palpable. I left her to rest and retreated to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the makeup, the pretense, and the lingering taste of a night that felt more like a chore than a date.