Preparing for What Should Have Been a Nice Evening
On Saturday, I took care getting ready. Nothing too formal, but a nice dress and careful attention to the details that make you feel confident. I stopped at a specialty chocolate shop and picked out an elegant box of Belgian chocolates as a hostess gift, even though technically he was the host.
My daughter called while I was getting ready.
“Where are you going all dressed up?” she asked.
“David invited me for dinner at his place,” I told her.
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“Mom, just… be careful, okay? You don’t really know this guy that well yet.”
“It’s just dinner, sweetheart. We’ve been talking for two months. He seems like a good person.”
“I’m sure he is,” she said, but I could hear the protective concern in her voice. “Just text me when you get there and when you leave, okay?”
I promised I would, touched by her care even as I felt certain there was nothing to worry about.
David’s apartment building was in a nice part of town, the kind of well-maintained complex where retired professionals tend to settle. Clean hallways. Well-kept landscaping. Everything suggesting stability and order.
He greeted me at the door with a warm smile, taking the chocolates with what seemed like genuine pleasure.
“You didn’t need to bring anything, but thank you. These look wonderful.”
The living room was spacious and tidy at first glance. Comfortable furniture. Bookshelves lined with volumes that suggested a curious mind. Two wine glasses already set out on the coffee table.
Everything looked perfectly normal.
“Dinner should be ready soon,” he said. “Let me show you the kitchen.”
I followed him, expecting to see pots simmering on the stove, maybe a salad being assembled, the pleasant chaos of someone in the middle of cooking a meal they care about.
Instead, I stopped cold in the doorway.
The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes. Pots, pans, plates, bowls—piled so high that some were balanced precariously on top of others. The counter was covered with groceries still in their bags. Raw vegetables. A package of meat. Rice. Potatoes. All of it just sitting there like someone had carried in shopping bags and then walked away.
Nothing was cooking. Nothing was prepared. Nothing suggested that dinner was anywhere close to ready.
“There,” David said, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “Everything’s ready for you.”
I turned to look at him, confusion replacing my earlier optimism.
“Ready for what?” I asked.
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