I’m all for romance. I’m also all for not getting trapped in conversational quicksand with a man who treats every sentence like a LinkedIn update.
So yes — I had an exit strategy. And yes — I thought I was about to pull off the perfect escape.
A Plan That Would Make Ocean’s Eleven Proud
It was a Tuesday night, and I’d agreed to meet a guy from an app whose texts read like a thesaurus held at gunpoint. Still, his profile said “sapiosexual” and “good listener”, so I thought: how bad could it be?
Before I left my apartment, I texted my friend:
“If I send you the word pineapple, call me with a fake emergency. Sell it.”
She replied with a pineapple emoji and:
“Do you want crying or just urgent breathing?”
That’s friendship.
Three Strikes and I’m Out
We meet at a wine bar. He orders for me without asking. Strike one. He launches into his “side hustle” like he’s pitching to Shark Tank. Strike two. By the time he explains why women “overthink safety,” my soul is quietly checking Zillow for apartments in another dimension. Strike three.
I slip my phone under the table, type pineapple, and hit send like I’m triggering a silent alarm.
The Getaway: Enter Gerald
Thirty seconds later, my phone lights up. My friend — an improv goddess — sounds like she’s delivering tragic news on live television:
“Your plants are dying. You need to come home. Now.”
I gasp. Loudly. “Oh my God, not Gerald!” I clutch my chest like I’ve just been personally attacked by Mother Nature herself.
(FYI, Gerald is my fiddle leaf fig. He is thriving.)
The guy blinks, probably wondering if Gerald is my boyfriend. Or my cat. Either way, I’m up from my chair faster than a toddler who just saw cake.
I toss cash on the table, murmur an apology, and stride out feeling like I just cracked a vault without tripping the alarms.
The Twist
The Brooklyn night air hits me, and at first, I’m high on my own cleverness. But ten steps later, the high wears off, and something starts gnawing at me.
Why did I have to ghost in person? Why did I make up an imaginary plant tragedy instead of just saying, “Hey, I’m not feeling this”?
Here’s the ugly truth: the pineapple plan wasn’t about safety this time. It was about avoiding discomfort. And avoiding discomfort is exactly how you end up staying too long in the wrong jobs, the wrong friendships, the wrong relationships.
So I turned around.
The Power Move
I walked back in. Sat down. Looked him in the eye and said:
“I want to be honest — this isn’t working for me. I think you’re looking for someone who’s fine being talked over and told what to drink, and I’m not her. So I’m going to head out.”
Then I left again. No fake emergencies. No secret codes. No wondering if I’d been “too much.”
Because ghosting might feel like control, but truth is actual power. It’s clean. It’s final. And it leaves you knowing you didn’t need a fake scenario to keep your dignity — you just needed your own voice.
xoxo
Ares
P.S. Gerald is fine. I watered him when I got home, to thank him for his role in the operation.
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