My Tinder Date Ordered Me An Uber Pool — But The Real Nightmare Was Waiting In His Living Room
Part 1
I should have deleted the app the moment my screen lit up with his unhinged message.
Honestly, I had just set my phone down on the kitchen counter to put away some clean dishes.
Ten minutes later, I returned to find three frantic notifications from Brian.
He informed me that if I didn’t want to keep the conversation going, I never should have started it.
My stomach performed a slow, uncomfortable flip.
I convinced myself he was just nervous and offered a polite excuse about my chores.
He instantly shifted gears, calling me cute and begging to take me out to dinner.
I decided to give him a chance.
That single lapse in judgment led me straight into a waking nightmare.
He absolutely insisted on arranging my transportation for the evening.
His messages were full of grand gestures about wanting to treat me right and pay for my ride.
I stood on the sidewalk in my favorite black dress, clutching my purse against the evening chill.
A battered silver sedan pulled up to the curb.
I opened the rear door and immediately froze in my tracks.
A large, heavily perspiring man in a stained white tank top was sprawled across the back seat.
The driver kept his eyes glued to the steering wheel, completely ignoring my hesitation.
Brian had actually ordered me an Uber Pool for a first date.
I squeezed into the tiny sliver of remaining seat space.
The stranger next to me spent the entire fifteen-minute drive making guttural noises.
Every time we passed a woman on the street, he leaned against the window and muttered something deeply unsettling.
My knuckles turned completely white as I gripped the door handle, ready to bolt at the first red light.
I somehow survived the journey and found Brian waiting outside a crowded mid-tier Italian restaurant.
He wore a stiff button-down shirt that was completely untucked on the left side.
There was no apology for the shared car ride.
Instead, he immediately whipped out his phone and shoved the screen inches from my nose.
He wanted me to admire a bright green graphic displaying a credit score of 853.
I stared at the glowing numbers in utter confusion.
The maximum possible credit score in existence is 850.
I decided against pointing out his hilariously bad photoshop job.
He strutted into the restaurant as if he had just conquered a small nation.
We settled at a cramped corner table near the kitchen doors.
The waiter hovered nearby with a forced, practiced smile.
I ordered a simple steak with a side of jasmine rice.
Brian scoffed loudly enough to make the couple at the next table turn their heads.
He leaned back and asked if a wild hyena had taught me how to eat.
Mocking my lack of vegetables, he proudly announced his own superior dietary choices.
I focused entirely on tracing the rim of my water glass with my index finger.
The urge to fake an emergency phone call grew stronger with every passing second.
He dominated the conversation, treating the date like a captive audience for his personal grievances.
I desperately tried to steer the topic toward neutral ground.
I casually mentioned my habit of listening to true crime podcasts before falling asleep.
His eyes suddenly lit up with a deeply uncomfortable intensity.
He leaned aggressively across the table, knocking the salt shaker over in the process.
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, suggesting we go back to his place to clear off the bed.
He wanted us to lay out a crime scene together and figure it out.
My brain struggled to process the bizarre, twisted syntax of his flirtation.
I declined his offer and stated I just wanted to go home.
He aggressively insisted on walking me back to his apartment building so I could wait for my ride indoors.
The night air had grown sharp and biting.
I reluctantly agreed, assuming we would just stand in a brightly lit lobby for five minutes.
We walked in heavy silence down a dimly lit side street.
He stopped in front of a weathered ground-floor unit and jammed a key into the lock.
Before I could protest, he pushed the heavy wooden door open.
He stepped inside and gestured grandly for me to follow.
I crossed the threshold and was instantly hit by the overwhelming stench of stale cigarette smoke.
Empty energy drink cans were stacked precariously on every visible surface.
A massive collection of dusty anime figurines lined the walls like an audience.
My eyes slowly adjusted to the gloomy lighting of the living room.
A woman in an oversized, faded band t-shirt was curled up on the sagging sofa.
She didn’t even bother to look up from her phone screen as I stood frozen in the entryway.
