After a few dates, a 45‑year‑old woman invited me home. During dinner I regretted being in her flat— I wasn’t prepared for that.

After a handful of dates, the 45yearold woman asked me to come over. I sat down for dinner and instantly regretted stepping into her flat; I wasnt ready for that.

I was driving to Poppys flat with a bottle of red wine, feeling absurdly childish, the sort of giddy that now makes me blush. Im fortyeight, supposedly old enough to be wiser, to read between the lines, to sense people, not to build castles in the air after a couple of meetups. Yet Simon, as it turned out, still clings to the romance in certain moments and to foolishness in others. Sometimes those moments overlap.

Poppy and I met on a dating site a month ago. At first we messaged, then we met a couple of times in cafés. I wont pretend otherwise: she smiled warmly, listened attentively, joked without the interrogation light shining on my faceDo you own a flat? Wheres your ex? Are you paying maintenance? What about your pension?

The early meetings were easy. We strolled, sipped coffee, talked about films, work, how at our age a date feels less like romance and more like a job interview spiked with hope.

She laughed. I laughed. It seemed we understood each other.

Then she said, simply:

Come over Saturday. Well sit and Ill cook something.

Of course, a man hears what he wishes to hear. I imagined a cosy, quiet evening with wine, kitchen conversation, perhaps something more. I even ironed my shirt myself, as if that were a pledge of serious intent.

I chose a bottle of red, lingering in the shop like a provincial sommelier. I didnt pick the cheapest, but not so pricey that Id later stare at the receipt and regret my feelings.

I arrived at seven. Poppy opened the door almost as if shed been waiting on the other side. She wore a dress, her hair neatly done, makeup flawlessbeautiful, almost too beautiful for a simple sit and chat.

I stepped inside and immediately sensed the flat had been prepared as if a healthinspection team, her mother, and the buildings managing director were about to arrive.

The floor shonetruly gleaming. I slipped off my shoes, feeling oddly guilty, as if I might leave a trace of my masculine inadequacy on the polished wood. The hallway smelled of cleanliness, perfume, and a lot of food. A lot.

In the kitchen I stopped dead.

On the table lay a salad, then another salad, a hot dish in a baking tray, a platter of sandwiches, sliced meats, some pastries, andbelieve it or notsoup. Soup, for a romantic evening.

I stared at the spread and said,

Poppy, are you expecting an army?

She laughed, a little tense.

Oh, come off it. I just wanted to feed you properly. A man should have a proper homecooked meal.

Something inside me twitched, not painful, just an itch. A harmless phrase, yet it rang like a tiny bell.

I passed her the wine.

Here you go, I said.

She took the bottle, glanced at it, and replied,

Thanks. I have some already.

She opened a cupboard. Inside sat three bottles of wine.

Three.

I felt suddenly like a guest whod arrived with a single flower to a wedding already booked for a hundred.

Wow, I said. Are we celebrating something big?

Why not? she answered. We should finally have a proper chat.

The word finally struck me. Wed only met a few times, exchanged messages, enjoyed each others company. Finally have a proper chat sounded as if Id been avoiding a family gathering for a month.

We sat down. She began loading food onto my plate before I could ask for wine.

Try this saladchicken. This onemushrooms. Ill put the hot dish on soon. Want some soup?

Poppy, let me

Dont be dainty, sit. I enjoy looking after you.

She served as if Id trekked through the moors for three days and now my survival hinged on the second slice of meat. The plate quickly turned into a miniature pantry.

I ate. Honestly, everything was tasty. Poppy cooks well. Yet a strange discomfort settled over menot from the food, but from an invisible contract lying beside it, one I seemed to have already signed, though I couldnt recall when.

She perched opposite, poured wine for herself and me.

Now were not in a café, but at homeproperly.

Cozy, I admitted.

It was true: the flat was tidy, bright, beautifulperhaps too cozy, as if someone had pumped it full of air.

Poppy watched me intently, not like a woman enamoured, but like an accountant eyeing a ledger missing a signature.

Simon, Ive been thinking about us, she began.

I nodded, my fork suddenly heavy.

About us?

Of course. Were not children. Were not twentysomething, flitting from date to date.

At that moment I realised the evening had veered off course. Id expected light banter, a laugh, a recollection of some neighbour with a power drill. Instead it felt like a council meeting about my future.

I agree were not kids, I said cautiously. But were still only getting to know each other.

She frowned.

Thats what unsettles me. What does still mean? How long must we keep getting to know each other? At our age we should know what we want.

I wanted to say, I just want to finish my salad, but I didnt. Manners, I guess.

I want a normal relationship, I managed. But I think everything should progress gradually.

Poppy leaned back.

Whats gradually? Another year of café dates?

Why a year?

How else? Men always say gradually. Then theyre doneshow up, sit, leave, and the woman waits.

She spoke faster, as if rehearsed, perhaps practiced in front of a mirror while polishing the immaculate countertop.

Simon, I dont want you waiting for some vague future, I said. But weve only known each other a month.

A month is enough to decide whether youre the one, she replied.

I fell silent. For her, a month was sufficient; for me, it wasnt. I suddenly felt guilty for not falling in love on schedule.

She nudged another dish toward me.

Eat while its hot; itll cool.

I mechanically lifted my fork. I was eating potatoes with meat while she narrated my destinya bizarre feeling, like being fed before a sentencing.

I thought we could skip the drag, Poppy said. You live alone. Im alone too. We each have flats. My neighbourhood is nicer, your commute is easy. Theres room.

I looked up.

Room for what?

She stared as if I were deliberately dense.

For us, Simon.

I hadnt even finished the wine. I just held the glass.

You mean living together?

What surprises you?

Everything, I muttered.

She smirked.

Ah, I see.

That smirk wasnt about understanding; it was a coat of resentment hanging in the hallway.

We barely know each other, I said.

Youve already said it.

Because it matters.

And I cant waste time. Im not a girl. Im fortyfive. I want a familynormal, with a man by my side, sharing meals, solving problems together.

The words were ordinary, but they cut. I, too, didnt picture ending up alone with frozen meals and the telly. I craved warmth. Yet between I want you near and youll take the role of a husband from next week lay a chasm.

I tried to soften my tone.

I get you. But a family isnt decided over dinner.

She slammed her glass down.

How else is it made? By texting all night? By walks? By these endless lets see promises?

I realised your wasnt just about me. All the men whod disappointed herexhusband, other site matches, the guy who vanished after a grand promisesat invisible at the table, sharing her salads, waiting for me to answer.

Im not them, I whispered.

And how would I know?

A blunt, uncomfortable question.

I looked at herbeautiful, tired, composed, tense, as if holding not a glass but the last straw to stitch a life together.

I felt pity for her. Pity, however, is a shaky foundation for any partnership. It can help you carry a bag to the lift, but you cant live in it.

She stood abruptly.

Ill pour the soup.

Simon, Im full.

Its fine, a little more.

Really, I dont want.

She still fetched the bowl. That tiny insistence struck me harder than the whole discussion about cohabitation. I said no, but she didnt hear it. Not because she was cruel, but because a script was already written in her head, and I was meant to eat the soup.

She placed the bowl before me.

Eat. Its homemade.

I stared at the soup and thought, Simon, you came for romance and got a casting call for a husband with a tasting menu of obligations.

And I laughednervously, but it was a laugh.

Poppy noticed.

Whats so funny?

Just

Is it funny?

No, its just the situation feels odd.

Odd? So Im odd to you?

I had to answer carefully.

No, not you. Just that we rushed into serious topics.

She turned cold.

Fine. You didnt come for serious talk.

I stayed silent, because indeed I hadnt. Saying otherwise would be rude, perhaps honest.

What did you come for, Simon? she asked.

The question hovered over the table.

I sat there, a fortyeightyearold with a past marriage, a divorce, a mortgage, a DIY renovation, a sore back, a peppered beard. I felt like a schoolboy caught buying cigarettes from a kiosk.

I came to you, I said.

No, you came to have a pleasant evening.

I didnt answer. She nodded, as if shed proved something to herself.

Exactly. I knew it.

Its not a crime to enjoy an evening with a woman I like, I replied.

What then?

Wed keep seeing each other, meeting, figuring out if we fit.

I dont need a man who tests me.

Im not testing you.

Youre testing. Everyone doeswhether Im convenient, fun, demanding, quiet when needed. I dont want that.

She spoke not just to me. I sensed the weight of all the unspoken past. It didnt ease the tension.

I pushed my plate aside.

Poppy, I think we should stop.

What do you mean?

Literally. I feel you want certainty I cant give.

A handy line.

Its not handy. Its honest.

Honest? she snorted. Men call honesty what benefits them.

I felt a sting, not sharp but uncomfortable, because I truly tried not to lie.

I never promised you wed live together.

And I never said I promised either.

But youre talking as if I already owe you something.

She sprang up.

No one owes anyone anything! Of course not! Thats the classic male linegradually. Then its convenient for them: show up, sit, leave, and the woman waits.

She spoke faster, as if rehearsed, perhaps practiced in front of a mirror while polishing that spotless countertop.

Simon, I dont want you waiting for some undefined future, I said. But weve only known each other a month.

A month is enough to decide if youre the one, she replied.

I fell silent. For her, a month was sufficient; for me, it wasnt. I suddenly felt guilty for not falling in love on schedule.

She nudged another dish toward me.

Eat while its hot; itll cool.

I mechanically lifted my fork. I was eating potatoes with meat while she narrated my destinya bizarre feeling, like being fed before a sentencing.

I thought we could skip the drag, Poppy said. You live alone. Im alone too. We each have flats. My neighbourhood is nicer, your commute is easy. Theres room.

I looked up.

Room for what?

She stared as if I were deliberately dense.

For us, Simon.

I hadnt even finished the wine. I just held the glass.

You mean living together?

What surprises you?

Everything, I muttered.

She smirked.

Ah, I see.

That smirk wasnt about understanding; it was a coat of resentment hanging in the hallway.

We barely know each other, I said.

Youve already said it.

Because it matters.

And I cant waste time. Im not a girl. Im fortyfive. I want a familynormal, with a man by my side, sharing meals, solving problems together.

The words were ordinary, but they cut. I, too, didnt picture ending up alone with frozen meals and the telly. I craved warmth. Yet between I want you near and youll take the role of a husband from next week lay a chasm.

I tried to soften my tone.

I get you. But a family isnt decided over dinner.

She slammed her glass down.

How else is it made? By texting all night? By walks? By these endless lets see promises?

I realised your wasnt just about me. All the men whod disappointed herexhusband, other site matches, the guy who vanished after a grand promisesat invisible at the table, sharing her salads, waiting for me to answer.

Im not them, I whispered.

And how would I know?

A blunt, uncomfortable question.

I looked at herbeautiful, tired, composed, tense, as if holding not a glass but the last straw to stitch a life together.

I felt pity for her. Pity, however, is a shaky foundation for any partnership. It can help you carry a bag to the lift, but you cant live in it.

She stood abruptly.

Ill pour the soup.

Simon, Im full.

Its fine, a little more.

Really, I dont want.

She still fetched the bowl. That tiny insistence struck me harder than the whole discussion about cohabitation. I said no, but she didnt hear it. Not because she was cruel, but because a script was already written in her head, and I was meant to eat the soup.

She placed the bowl before me.

Eat. Its homemade.

I stared at the soup and thought, Simon, you came for romance and got a casting call for a husband with a tasting menu of obligations.

And I laughednervously, but it was a laugh.

Poppy noticed.

Whats so funny?

Just

Is it funny?

No, its just the situation feels odd.

Odd? So Im odd to you?

I had to answer carefully.

No, not you. Just that we rushed into serious topics.

She turned cold.

Fine. You didnt come for serious talk.

I stayed silent, because indeed I hadnt. Saying otherwise would be rude, perhaps honest.

What did you come for, Simon? she asked.

The question hovered over the table.

I sat there, a fortyeightyearold with a past marriage, a divorce, a mortgage, a DIY renovation, a sore back, a peppered beard. I felt like a schoolboy caught buying cigarettes from a kiosk.

I came to you, I said.

No, you came to have a pleasant evening.

I didnt answer. She nodded, as if shed proved something to herself.

Exactly. I knew it.

Its not a crime to enjoy an evening with a woman I like, I replied.

What then?

Wed keep seeing each other, meeting, figuring out if we fit.

I dont need a man who tests me.

Im not testing you.

Youre testing. Everyone doeswhether Im convenient, fun, demanding, quiet when needed. I dont want that.

She spoke not just to me. I sensed the weight of all the unspoken past. It didnt ease the tension.

I pushed my plate aside.

Poppy, I think we should stop.

What do you mean?

Literally. I feel you want certainty I cant give.

A handy line.

Its not handy. Its honest.

Honest? she snorted. Men call honesty what benefits them.

I felt a sting, not sharp but uncomfortable, because I truly tried not to lie.

I never promised you wed live together.

And I never said I promised either.

But youre talking as if I already owe you something.

She sprang up.

No one owes anyone anything! Of course not! Thats the classic male linegradually. Then its convenient for them: show up, sit, leave, and the woman waits.

She spoke faster, as if rehearsed, perhaps practiced in front of a mirror while polishing that spotless countertop.

Simon, I dont want you waiting for some undefined future, I said. But weve only known each other a month.

A month is enough to decide if youre the one, she replied.

I fell silent. For her, a month was sufficient; for me, it wasnt. I suddenly felt guilty for not falling in love on schedule.

She nudged another dish toward me.

Eat while its hot; itll cool.

I mechanically lifted myAs the night slipped away, I stepped back into the rainslick street, the taste of soup and broken promises lingering like a phantom echo of a dinner that never truly existed.