The Tamesis
Last month, during a layover in New York, I met a man who immediately recognized me because of something I had done on a date a few years before (definitely not a good sign).
“Oh my God,” he said in a British accent that sounded vaguely polite, “you’re the girl who won’t split the bill. I’ve heard about you.” He was the brother of a guy I used to hang out with – actually, two guys, because I accidentally went out with them too. other Brother many years later. (This is more of a New York situation than incest, and perhaps a sign that I should broaden my dating horizons beyond British trust fund kids with daddy issues.)
The interrogator smiled and asked if he could undo the damage done by the brothers and restore the family’s honor. (Thank God he didn’t come to pick me up either; he was already dating someone I knew.)
Here’s the thing: I met my first brother on Eid a few years ago during a brief but serious attempt to use dating apps. We agreed to go to West Hollywood for coffee. I later learned that he was a failed actor with a serious drug problem, but at the time it was just intense eye contact.
When I arrived at the appointment on time, he was already seated and had ordered food and coffee. I ordered my own milk tea, paid for it myself (an important detail in retrospect), and sat down.
We chatted as usual for about 20 minutes, and then he suddenly announced that he was going to go walk the dog. I was told that Bruno, the little Frenchie who stared at me from the café window, suffered from extreme separation anxiety — impressive considering how quickly his owner separated from me. My date got up, left, and never contacted me again.
A few years later, I met a man at a party in Brooklyn through mutual friends. He lives in a townhouse packed with six other twentysomethings that feels less like a home and more like a fraternity. He asked me for my phone number and then asked me out. His accent was familiar. British again. I choose not to reflect on this.
It wasn’t until we were sitting in a Williamsburg bar one winter night when he casually said, “I think you know my brother.” Ultimately, I wasn’t shocked by the coincidence so much as I was shocked by how little I remembered of the other date. Eid doesn’t show surnames and our coffee actually ended before it started. Still, I felt a little embarrassed because I didn’t realize it—and also a little weird because my brother knew and still wanted to go out with me.
We each had a bottle of beer. Then the check arrived. He looked at me, eyes narrowed in concentration.
“We’re going to separate, right?” he asked.
“Well, of course,” I replied. But I’m angry. When he asked me if I wanted to see him again, I said no. He looked really confused.
“You let me split the bill,” I said.
“Yes.”
“so…?”
“So, I thought you were a feminist,” he replied.
“If you don’t want to pay for a date, you should ask me to go for a walk in the park.” I tried to explain to him that it was not a matter of money, but a matter of principle. And his parents clearly let him down.
The thing is, I can afford my own drinks. I can afford dinner. I can afford a lot of things. What I cannot bear is a lack of chivalry. In relationships, I am generous. I’m happy to pay for dinner, plan trips, collect checks, and bake bread. But a first date is more than just a gesture; This is a small but meaningful statement of benefit. When you invite someone out, you’re technically hosting them. It doesn’t require luxury, just some effort. I’ve dated some men who had very little money and they still knew how to make a woman feel taken care of.
