Mahmoud smiled. I noticed how his crow’s feet became more accentuated with the lift of his mouth. “I hope you’re not just saying that because you’re nervous.” He wagged his finger playfully, keeping his eyes on me. “I was serious when I told you that I like a girl who isn’t afraid to eat.” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair as flashbacks of our first text conversation came back to me.

As we waited for our food to arrive, I attempted to fill in the awkward silences with mundane chatter about the “pleasant weather” and the interior decor of the restaurant. Whether it was because I was still recovering from my initial shock at Mahmoud’s appearance or just dealing with the symptoms of my SRS, it was obvious that the conversation between us did not flow as naturally in person as it did over texts. My discomfort was palpable, and I could tell Mahmoud was trying extra hard to impress me. When our dinner finally arrived, he shifted into a lengthy discussion about how incredibly busy he was at his corner office with his fancy-schmancy clients and the high-stakes project he was currently working on. I sat there with a forced smile on my face and nodded, pretending to be interested, even though all I really wanted to do was finish my bowl of minestrone and get the hell out of there.

When the check finally arrived, I exhaled with relief. I couldn’t wait to get in the car and chew out Liv and the other girls for convincing me to give online dating a whirl. I should have known this was going to be a major fail with my luck. I was disappointed in myself for even getting my hopes up.

Mahmoud took out his phone and swiped up on the screen to open an app. He punched in a few numbers and then turned to me unabashedly. “Would you like me to calculate your portion of the tab?” he asked, reaching for his wallet.

I nearly choked on my water. Whatever happened to #13: GENTLEMANLY and #25: CHIVALROUS? I was not old-fashioned by any means, but I grew up in a household where I was taught that men always treated women with courtesy and respect. They opened doors. They carried groceries. They paid the bill. Especially when it was a first date at a restaurant that they insisted on. For the past twenty-four hours, Mahmoud had raved on and on about this “charming little Italian place” that he just knew I would love. Initially I was smitten by his confidence, but that was before he showed up looking more like an uncle than a potential husband, and then subjected me to forty-eight minutes of busy-bragging. And now Mr. Catfish—with his lucrative career and mahogany Wegner Swivel chair in his corner office—wanted me to split the tab with him?

“Are you sure you don’t want me to just make it my treat?” I asked irritatedly as the small serving of soup violently threatened to push its way up my throat.