A fictionalized dating column.
After a month of dating, Rachel told me I was not meeting her needs. I put down my coffee. This sounded like a conversation worth having before either of us ordered another.
She liked gifts and acts of service. Previous dates, she explained, had driven an hour to bring dinner, give her a hug, and leave. There had also been help with manicures and other thoughtful expenses.
I had been arranging dates and assuming that showing up interested counted as interest. Apparently, we had been following different operating instructions.
For a moment I wanted to label her a gold digger. It was a satisfying phrase, and it would save me the effort of explaining what I actually objected to: being compared with a roster of men whose courtship apparently included delivery shifts.
Rachel was allowed to enjoy presents. I was allowed not to want that arrangement. The useful question was whether we could discuss expectations without turning every difference into evidence that one of us was defective.
I told her I enjoyed treating a partner sometimes, but did not want spending to become the main proof of affection. She said practical generosity mattered more to her than I seemed to understand.
We finished the coffee without resolving the difference. We did not arrange another date.
There was no need to issue a warning about all women or all men. Two people had discovered they wanted different things after a month. In dating terms, that is almost efficient.
I drove home without dinner in the passenger seat. The road was unusually clear.
