Un uomo mi ha chiesto di andare a cena da lui, ma quando sono arrivata, non c’era niente da mangiare: solo un lavandino traboccante di piatti sporchi e la spesa sparsa sul bancone. Con calma, mi ha detto: “Voglio vedere che tipo di casalinga saresti e se sai cucinare”.

“David,” I said evenly, “I came for a date. Not a job interview.”

He looked genuinely confused. “There’s an apron over there. I need borscht, cutlets, and clean dishes. I want to see care. If you can’t handle this, what happens when I’m sick?”

It was manipulation, plain and simple.

“You don’t need a wife,” I told him calmly. “You need a housekeeper, a cook, and a nurse rolled into one.”

His expression hardened.

“You women just want restaurants,” he snapped.

“I didn’t apply for employment,” I replied. “And I’m not here to prove myself. I’ve already done forty years of that.”

I picked up the chocolates I had brought.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

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