The absurdity of that was too good to ignore. In a calm voice, I asked whether he really meant to tell me he had to send a work report at eight o’clock on a Friday night.
That did it. His nerves finally gave out. Nearly shouting, he snapped, “Yes!” as if volume alone might make the story believable.
Then he turned so fast he almost slipped on the packed snow. Without another word, he hurried off toward the nearest subway entrance at something between a fast walk and a panicked jog.
I followed at my own steady pace, enjoying the moment more than I probably should have. My rugged philosopher of hardship had lasted exactly fifteen minutes in actual winter.
When he reached the glass doors of the station, he didn’t look back, wave, or say goodbye. He simply disappeared into the blessed artificial warmth below ground.
Watching him go through the falling snow, I felt a flicker of dry sympathy. I sincerely hoped the heat inside would keep him from frostbite. Maybe, if he was lucky, it might thaw out a few of his opinions too.
Though if I’m being realistic, people rarely change that much from one cold evening. Most likely, he’d stay exactly who he was, and the lesson would be lost on him.
As for me, my evening ended exactly the way I’d hoped it would: warm, safe, and comfortable. I went home, peeled off my ski armor, and put the kettle on.
Back in my favorite chair with a big mug of hot tea, I picked up my phone. Without a second thought, I deleted our entire thread.
I didn’t regret a minute of that strange little date. It wasn’t just a funny story to tell friends later. It was a useful reminder that taking care of yourself does not make you selfish.
Those fifteen freezing minutes stayed with me as proof that a woman is not a gold digger just because she prefers basic comfort and common sense. I took a sip of tea, caught my reflection in the dark window, smiled, and locked my phone.
