Page 2 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Jennifer

Red flag one: he responded to my message within an hour.

Not in a “wow, he’s so enthusiastic” way.

This man replied like he’d been hovering in the shadows with push notifications on, shirt off, probably sitting in the dark with his dick in one hand and a motivational podcast about hustle culture in the other.

He used three emojis in one sentence and called me “angel.”

Not sweetheart. Not babe. Angel. Like I fell off a stripper pole and landed on my frontal lobe.

Red flag two: he didn’t want to meet somewhere public.

“It’s just so loud in coffee shops,” he said, as if espresso machines judged him with their hisses and found him lacking. “How about this place I know with great wings?”

Turns out “place I know” is a place I know. A shitty bar with a peeling NASCAR decal on the window, two broken stools, and a menu written entirely in grease. It smells like piss, pool chalk, and the crushing weight of unpaid child support.

So obviously, I agreed.

Why? Because I’m generous. I give them four dates, minimum.

Time to show me a soul under the sleaze.

A spark of decency. Maybe a trauma-informed apology.

A shred of redemption. Unless they trigger the kill clause: excessive rudeness, sexual aggression, or saying “females” like they’re listing livestock.

Red flag three: he was already two beers in when I arrived.

Derik (that’s his name, of course it fucking is) is waiting inside, and has the audacity to look me up and down like I’m the one who smells like urinal cake and monster truck divorce.

“You’re late,” he says, without standing up. His breath could melt the varnish off the bar. “But I forgive you.” He smirks. He thinks he’s being charming.

I smile back, just enough to keep his blood pressure steady. “You ordered without me?” I ask.

“Gotta establish dominance.” He winks. “Alpha mindset.”

I stare at him for a beat too long, imagining the precise pressure needed to break a beer bottle against someone’s face without getting glass in the eyes. Not that I’d do it here. I have standards.

“Damn,” he says. “Didn’t expect you to be this curvy.”

I smile. Wide. Bright. All teeth. “Aw. That’s so sweet. I didn’t expect you to look like someone’s divorced cousin who still DJs high school reunions.”

He laughs, like I’m joking.

I’m not.

I slide onto the stool. It wobbles like it’s given up on its will to live.

“You didn’t tell me it was a bar,” I say, gently.

He shrugs. “You didn’t ask.”

I breathe in through my nose. The smell is worse now. Sausage and entitlement. “Well,” I say sweetly, “I guess it’s good you’re not trying to impress me.”

He doesn’t catch the tone. Of course he doesn’t. This is a man who thinks sarcasm is a color. He waves the bartender down with two fingers and a “Yo, doll.” I order a ginger ale. He orders a pitcher. For himself.

“So you into, like, astrology and shit?” he asks.

“Only when Mercury’s in retrograde and I need someone to blame for my rage.” I sip my drink. “Why?”

He shrugs. “My ex used to say Scorpios were manipulative bitches. You give off those vibes.”

Oh good. A walking reddit thread in jeans.

“Charming,” I say, and file it under Red Flag Four: Openly trashes exes on a first date.

The food arrives. He’d ordered wings with extra sauce and proceeds to eat like a raccoon fighting a possum over a corn dog in an alley.

“You got nice lips,” he says, halfway through his third wing. “Bet you give killer head.”

This is fine. Totally fine. Public servant work isn’t always glamorous. Sometimes you scrub toilets. Sometimes you smile at a man with buffalo sauce in his mustache while calculating how deep a shallow grave needs to be for full decomposition.

“That’s such a thoughtful compliment,” I purr, folding my napkin. “Tell me, how often do lines like that work for you?”

He grins. “More than you’d think.”

I bet. I bet he does just fine with the kind of women who never got taught what red flags were. The kind who think they’re supposed to laugh it off, just be cool, don’t be dramatic. Women like I used to be. Before Walter.

“Wanna dance?” he asks, gesturing at the battered jukebox by the wall.

I glance around. There’s no dance floor. Just a beer-sticky patch of laminate near the bathrooms that might once have hosted line dancing before someone rage-peed on it during a Kid Rock cover.

“You can pick the song,” he adds.

“Wow. A modern gentleman,” I say.

He beams. And then, he gestures at the slot. “You got cash for the jukebox?”

I stare.

He wants me to pay. For the jukebox. On a date he picked. At a bar I hate. After insulting my entire astrological chart and most of my body.

“Of course,” I say, fishing out a bill. “It’s the least I can do.”

Because I’m a public servant. Because heroes make sacrifices. Because no other woman should ever have to endure this man licking wing sauce off his thumb like it’s foreplay.

I select Patsy Cline. Obviously.

He tries to dance. He grabs my waist like he’s never touched a human woman before, just VR titties and the vague memory of prom.

I sway. I smile. I make a mental note to swing by Home Depot for lime.

He leans in. Breath like IPA and Axe body spray. “You’re not like other girls,” he says.

I lean closer, lips just by his ear. “No, Derik,” I whisper. “I’m worse.”

He doesn’t hear me. Or he thinks “I’m worse” is some half-assed kink signal, because now he’s nuzzling my neck like a drunk iguana trying to tongue-kiss a lava lamp. Jesus tapdancing Christ.

I pull back. Not dramatically, just enough to set a firm, dainty little boundary like the well-mannered reaper I am.

“Sorry,” I say, as I return to the table smiling like a snake in a sunhat at a church picnic.

Pure, weaponized Southern hospitality. “I have a personal policy. No kissing on date one.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Seriously?”

“Mmhmm,” I nod, sipping my ginger ale like it’s a holy elixir of virtue and not a palate cleanser between rounds of male idiocy.

“Four-date minimum before any hanky-panky. Exceptions only apply to spontaneous sonnets or if you’re actively fleeing Interpol.

You, darling, are barely beating the ‘sentient trash bag’ threshold. ”

He stares like I just outlawed blowjobs and bacon in the same breath. Then, the gears start turning, slowly, painfully, and he smiles.

“I respect that,” he says, which is Red Flag Five, because it’s always said by men who don’t.

I pluck a napkin from the table and hand it to him like a peace offering. “You’ve got… DNA on your face.”

He wipes his mouth with a grunt, misses most of it, and smears the rest down his chin. I’ve seen frat house carpets with better hygiene.

“Well,” he says, “if we’re not making out, you wanna maybe head to my place and watch a movie? Got a killer setup. Big screen. Leather couch. All the John Wick films.”

Oh, honey. “That’s sweet,” I say, reaching for my purse. “But I don’t go home with men I’ve just met. You might be a serial killer.”

He laughs. “What are the odds?”

“Oh, higher than you think.” I stand, toss a twenty on the table for my soda and his shame, and smooth my skirt like I’m prepping for a prayer circle, not homicide. “But you’ve made it to date two territory. Congratulations.”

His eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

“Sure. Text me next week. We’ll grab dinner. Maybe someplace without floor stains that look like homicide outlines.”

“Cool, cool,” he says, practically puffing up with testosterone pride. “You’re not like other chicks. I like that.”

“You said that already,” I say, bright and sweet. “But repetition is good for memory retention. Helps with learning.”

He doesn’t get it.

We part ways out front. He tries to go for a cheek kiss. I Matrix-dodge that shit with a polite pivot and a little wave. “Bye now!” I chirp, already mentally listing hardware stores with good tarp sales.

I wait until he’s out of sight before I exhale. Hard. My face hurts from smiling like a Stepford wife on ketamine, and my patience has stretch marks.

I tug my coat tighter, duck my head, and head toward my car. The air is cool and quiet and somehow still cleaner than the man I just endured.

One date down. Three to go. Unless he tells me he vapes in bed or unironically uses the word “femoid,” in which case, it’s shovel o’clock and the tomatoes are getting a new fertilizer blend.