The weather service had issued warnings all day, urging people to stay home unless they absolutely had to go out. Emergency alerts kept buzzing on everyone’s phones. And right in the middle of all that, Walter texted me with a bright idea: our first date should be a walk in the park.
He described it as if it were something out of a poem—snow-covered paths, crisp air, meaningful conversation. In his mind, that kind of stripped-down setting would reveal who we really were, without all the distractions and false polish of modern life. I stared at the message in disbelief, then answered as politely and reasonably as I could.
I pointed out that in weather like this, we’d both turn into ice sculptures in about ten minutes. I suggested something much more sensible: a nearby coffee shop, where we could sit down and have a hot drink. His reply came back almost immediately, like he’d been waiting for the chance.
He informed me that he did not, on principle, go to places like that, because they were full of women looking for free meals and handouts. He said he was searching for a loyal life partner—someone willing to go with him through fire, water, and hardship without hesitation. Then he got to the part he really cared about.
He told me flat out that if it was so important to me that he spend five dollars on coffee, then we clearly weren’t right for each other. Any sensible person probably would have blocked him on the spot. But something in me—part curiosity, part stubbornness—wanted to see this man in real life.
I wanted to meet the self-declared defender of pure relationships, the man who saw a cup of coffee as financial exploitation. So I agreed. I told him I’d meet him in the park at seven o’clock sharp by the main gate.
Getting ready for that date took real planning. My common sense told me that trying to look cute in this weather would be a health risk. So I went to the back of my closet and pulled out every serious winter item I owned.
First came thermal base layers. Then a thick fleece with a high collar. Over that went my heavy ski suit—the kind built for people who actually spend time on mountain slopes in January.
I paid special attention to my feet, pulling on my warmest winter boots with thick tread and stuffing them with heavy wool socks my grandmother had knit years ago. On my head went a fur-lined trapper hat that covered my ears, forehead, and half my face.
When I looked in the mirror, I had to laugh. I did not look like a woman heading out on a first date. I looked like somebody preparing to spend the night in a snowstorm. But inside that bulky cocoon, I felt warm, practical, and fully prepared.
