LINK: family affair parte diez (best viewed through the link)
Again, I probably have no business choosing anyone for myself… but then again neither does my mother.
Here we go. Another app date.
Looks-wise, Abe looked like a Kdrama actor. Older. 6’2″ and muscular AF.
He actually looked like this guy in the pic but with shorter hair and no facial hair.
He works for the CBI (state level FBI), former Navy, and police officer. He is fluent in Korean and English, direct in his DMs, no mind games. After a few FaceTimes to rule out catfishing, he was eager to meet in person. The proximity between us was convenient; the straightforwardness made it easy to say yes.
While we were FaceTiming, he asked me where I wanted to eat when we go out on our first date. Nerves took over and the word “Chilis” slipped out. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I wanted it ultra casual to take the edge off. Plus, I haven’t been there since I attended uni and remembered them having a decent happy hour. He laughed, raised his eyebrows and asked if I was serious. I held my ground. Chili’s it was.
I arrived early and sat in my car, doing deep breathing exercises. I was nervous AF. At exactly 1900, his black BMW pulled in. He went inside first, and I gave it a full minute before following.
When I opened the door to the restaurant, he was right there, waiting at the entrance with a wide grin. “현 (Hyun – my Korean name)?” I nodded, He grabbed my hand and laced his fingers through mine and my pulse skyrocketed. I could feel my heart beating loudly and wondered if he could hear it too. I reminded myself to stay cool. Chill. Tranquilo wey (take it easy).
When our table was ready, he still held my hand as we followed the hostess. At the table, he pulled out my chair. Hm… chivalrous. This is nice. I thanked him as I made myself comfortable in the chair.
“Look at me,” he said. His voice was calm but stern. I hesitated, because in Korean culture, direct eye contact with someone older is considered disrespectful. When I finally met his gaze, he leaned in.
“If you ever lie to me, I’ll know. So don’t ever fucking lie to me.”
It sounded like a threat… and my anticipation curdled into dread.
I replied, “Um I’m not sure why you think I would? But I haven’t lied to you.”
He said, “Good. Cause I know when someone is lying to me.”
This shit might work with convicts or his exes but I don’t do well with perilous warnings.
The waitress came. Before I could speak, he ordered for both of us — surf and turf ribeye for him, Santa Fe salad for me.
I was puzzled for a moment then I realized what was happening.
“Actually, I’ll just have a cup of soup,” I countered.
“No, she’ll have the salad,” he corrected sharply.
I locked eyes with him this time, “If that salad comes out, I’m not eating it. Soup.”
The waitress glanced at us nervously. He glared. The tension was thick enough to chew.
The rest of dinner felt like an interrogation. He grilled me about my family, like I had caught a case. He was in work mode, eyes sharp, waiting for me to trip. I answered honestly — I had nothing to hide. When I turned the questions back on him, he rattled off details about his older sisters, his parents, and how they were pushing him to marry. He then said, almost casually, that I looked like I came from “good stock” and would be healthy enough to “sire children.” Who the fuck talks like that? I inwardly sighed and swallowed my disgust.
The soup and salad arrived. I slid the salad to him. He pushed it back. We played silent ping-pong with a plate of lettuce until he asked the waitress to box it up. He ate aggressively, steak knife stabbing, chewing on the ribeye as if it had personally offended him.
When the bill came, I tried to grab it. My objective was to pay for the meal and end this whole ordeal, but he snatched it from my hands. “Don’t ever do that again,” he sneered.
As we walked to our cars, he complained about wasting money on “my salad”. I didn’t even want to engage with him at this point so I kept my mouth shut and walked faster to my car.
As I got to my car door, I thought our time together would end there, but instead, he grabbed onto my arm, pulled me into a tight bear hug, and squeezed hard enough that I thought he was going crack my ribs. My bag slipped to the ground. His grip didn’t feel romantic at all, it felt more like he was gauging how my naked body would feel pressed up against him. I couldn’t breathe. When he finally let go, he picked up my bag, and nonchalantly said, “Next time, you’re paying, and we’re eating Korean food,” and buckled me into my own car seat like a child.
The second he got into his car and drove away, I texted my friends in our group chat: date’s over, I’m fine. I’ll explain tomorrow.
Then I drove home in silence.
No radio.
No distractions.
Just anger simmering in my thoughts. I was mad that I didn’t clock him fast enough. How could I have been so stupid?
I was blinded by his handsome looks.
I wondered if he thought I was fat since he ordered me a salad instead of a steak.
I began spiraling and questioned if my outfit made me look big.
By the time I got home, my phone was already lighting up with texts from Abe: Did you get home okay? When’s out second date? As if the night had gone superbly. Is this fucker delulu? Did we go out on the same date? I groaned, hit the block button, and deleted the app. I was extremely thankful that I gave him my Google number. I deleted that gmail account and number. Lesson learned.
Fuck me.
I’ll have to do better next time.
Le sigh.
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