A gentleman (63) invited me to a restaurant, but an hour before the date he suddenly “fell ill.” The moment I heard his rescue plan, I knew there would be no more dates…
I am fifty-eight years old, a widow, and for the past five years I have been living an absolutely calm, steady life. My children have long since grown up and have families of their own. I work in a flower shop and enjoy every single day.
Recently, a friend talked me into signing up for a dating site. She said it wasn’t right for such a blooming woman to spend her evenings alone in front of the TV.
I resisted for a long time, but in the end I gave in, filled out a profile, and uploaded a couple of flattering photos from my last vacation. Almost immediately, Nikolai wrote to me.
He was sixty-three, also a widower. From his photos, he seemed like quite an interesting man with a pleasant smile.
We started messaging, then spoke on the phone. His voice turned out to be pleasant and velvety; he spoke beautifully and gave me elegant, unobtrusive compliments.
Last weekend, we met for the first time. We strolled through the autumn park and had coffee with éclairs in a small café.
Nikolai seemed perfectly reasonable, although a couple of warning bells did ring. He went on a bit too long and in too much detail about his ailments and his visits to doctors.
First it was his back acting up at the dacha, then his joints aching when the weather changed, then his stomach hurting after cafeteria food. Out of politeness, I nodded along, putting it down to age. After all, we’re no longer twenty; each of us has our own medical record and our own health problems.
At the end of the walk, he gallantly kissed my hand and suggested that the following Saturday we go to a nice fish restaurant in the city center.
I happily agreed. I absolutely love seafood, and besides, I finally had a reason to wear my new burgundy dress.
All that week, we exchanged sweet messages morning and evening. He wished me good morning, sent me pictures of coffee and bouquets of flowers. Everything seemed to be heading toward a normal, pleasant date.
A trap for soft-hearted women
On Saturday, I started getting ready about three hours before the appointed time. I took a bath, styled my hair neatly, and put on makeup. I took out that very burgundy dress, the one I had bought back in spring at a sale but had never worn anywhere.
I even got out my low-heeled shoes, even though I usually prefer comfortable sneakers. Standing in front of the hallway mirror, I could objectively see that I looked simply wonderful for my age.
Our table was reserved for six in the evening. It was almost five when my phone rang.
I happily picked up, thinking Nikolai had already left home and was calling to say he would be waiting for me at the entrance.
But instead of a cheerful greeting, I heard a weak, suffering groan on the other end.
“Lyudochka, save me,” Nikolai groaned in a strained voice.
“Kolya, what happened? Are you feeling unwell? …
I am fifty-eight years old, a widow, and for the past five years I have been living an absolutely calm, steady life. My children have long since grown up and started families of their own, and I work in a flower shop and enjoy every day.
Recently, a friend talked me into signing up for a dating site. She said it wasn’t right for such a blooming woman to spend her evenings alone in front of the television.
I resisted for a long time, but in the end I gave in, filled out a profile, and uploaded a couple of flattering photos from my last vacation. Almost immediately, Nikolai wrote to me.
He was sixty-three, also a widower. From his photos, he seemed like quite an attractive man with a pleasant smile.
We started messaging, then spoke on the phone. His voice turned out to be pleasant and velvety; he spoke beautifully and gave me graceful, unobtrusive compliments.
Last weekend, we met for the first time. We walked through the autumn park and had coffee with éclairs in a small café.
Nikolai seemed perfectly normal, although a couple of warning bells did ring. He spent a bit too long, and in too much detail, talking about his ailments and his trips to the doctor.
First it was his back acting up at the dacha, then his joints aching because of the weather, then his stomach hurting after cafeteria food. Out of politeness, I nodded and chalked it up to age. After all, we’re not twenty anymore; everyone has their own medical record and their own health problems.
At the end of the walk, he gallantly kissed my hand and suggested that the following Saturday we go to a good fish restaurant in the city center.
I happily agreed. I really love seafood, and besides, I finally had a reason to wear my new burgundy dress.
All week long, we exchanged sweet messages morning and evening. He wished me good morning, sent me pictures of coffee and bouquets of flowers. It really seemed like everything was heading toward a normal, decent date.
A Trap for Soft-Hearted Women
On Saturday, I started getting ready about three hours before the appointed time. I took a bath, did my hair neatly, and put on makeup. I took out that same burgundy dress I had bought in the spring on sale but had never worn anywhere.
I even took out my low heels, although I usually prefer running around in comfortable sneakers. Standing in front of the mirror in the hallway, I could objectively see that I looked excellent for my age.
We had reserved a table for six in the evening. It was almost five when my phone rang.
I happily picked up, thinking Nikolai had already left home and was calling to say he would be waiting for me by the entrance.
But instead of a cheerful greeting, I heard a weak, suffering groan on the line.
“Lyudochka, save me,” Nikolai groaned in a strained voice.
“Kolya, what happened? Are you feeling unwell?”
“My blood pressure shot up, one sixty over a hundred. My head is splitting, and there’s an unbearable ringing in my ears.”
“Then call an ambulance immediately!” I was genuinely frightened for him. “You can’t joke about blood pressure like that. Let the doctors come.”
“An ambulance? They’ll come, give me a token injection, and leave. You’d better come yourself and save me.”
I froze with the phone in my hand. My mind started feverishly analyzing the situation and putting the facts together.
“What do you mean, come to you? We have a reservation in an hour.”
“What restaurant, Lyuda? I can’t even get out of bed. Come to my place, buy some blood pressure pills and a lemon at the pharmacy on the way. Make me some tea, sit by me, take my blood pressure. I need your feminine care right now.”
I looked at my reflection in the mirror, at my styled hair, at the pretty shoes ready for going out. And suddenly the whole picture in my head became absolutely transparent and clear.
The man had simply changed his mind about spending money on a restaurant. He decided that a free caregiver delivering medicine to his home was a far better option for a Saturday evening than paying a seafood bill.
“Nikolai, if you really feel that bad, call an ambulance,” I said in a completely calm, icy tone. “I’m not a doctor, not a nurse, and not a pharmacy delivery service.”
There was a pause on the line. The suffering notes in my gentleman’s voice vanished instantly.
“So you’re not coming? Is it really so hard for you to bring a sick person a glass of water?”
“It’s not hard. But we’ve only known each other for a minute. I’m standing here in a dress, ready to go on a date. And you’re suggesting I come to your house to check your pulse and make you tea.”
“Well, that tells me everything about you,” Nikolai’s voice turned sharp, angry, and offended. “All you modern women care about are restaurants and other people’s money. The moment someone feels unwell, you disappear. Selfish, mercenary women. There’s no compassion left in you.”
I didn’t listen to his nonsense about mercenary women. I simply hung up.
I put my shoes away, unzipped my dress, and went to the kitchen. I was a little upset about the ruined evening and the time I had spent getting ready, but what I felt far more strongly was incredible relief.
It was good that this cheap theatrical performance happened right now, and not six months into a relationship, when I might already have grown attached to him.
There was a bottle of wine left over from the holidays, so I took it out and poured myself a glass. And I ordered sushi delivery from the very restaurant we had planned to go to.
A couple of hours later, I was eating delicious rolls, looking out the window, and thinking about how sly and predictable our pensioner men can be in their desires.
They go on dating sites not at all to find a reliable partner or an interesting companion for walks together. They are looking for free service staff.
I have a neighbor on my stairwell, Aunt Valya. She’s sixty-five. Exactly a year ago, she also took pity on one of those dying Romeos.
He, too, first sang beautifully to her about loneliness, and then started complaining about sciatica and bad knees. She ran across the whole city bringing him hot soup, giving him injections, and rubbing ointment into his back.
In the end, he simply moved in with her. And now she is a round-the-clock servant to a capricious lord.
I decided very clearly for myself that I would never fall into that humiliating trap. I have grown children, grandchildren, my hobbies, and my favorite job that brings me income.
I want to go to the theater, take excursions, drink coffee in beautiful places, and enjoy my freedom. I am absolutely not against caring for a loved one, but becoming a free caregiver for some barely known man from a dating site who was too stingy to spend money on a restaurant and decided to play on a woman’s pity? No thank you—go look for fools somewhere else.
My evening turned out wonderful. I watched a good old movie, finished the wine, and went to bed with a peaceful heart.
And the next morning, I simply logged in and deleted my profile from that dating site forever. I realized that my nerves and peace of mind are far more valuable to me than the dubious prospect of marrying some sly old man with high blood pressure.