“I can’t believe I’ve been sentenced to this,” Mathilde thought as she walked towards the restaurant.

Yes, first dates should usually be filled with optimism and butterflies mixed with slight nerves… but it had only been four days since her world fell apart at the hands of John’s text:

We’ve had a good eight months together, but I think that is as far as it will go. Yes, you were there for me during a difficult time, and your therapist helped me heal. But I don’t see us as more than friends. And, I recently started dating someone else. I hope you can understand.

The wound was still fresh, her heart pounding beneath it, but she clung to the hope that Jeremy might help dull the ache.

They had only just matched on Hinge, but Jeremy seemed to be what John never was: decisive. He wanted to meet immediately. He chose the time and the place without hesitation. A sure sign of a man, not a boy.

Mathilde arrived at the restaurant exactly at 10:30 a.m. for their brunch date.

No Jeremy.

Still, she approached the hostess. “Hi—table for two. The reservation should be under ‘Jeremy.’”

The hostess searched the list then looked at her with something close to pity. “I’m sorry, we don’t have a reservation under that name.”

Thankfully, there was one table available—outside.

Mathilde hesitated. A first date. No shade. A summer afternoon.

It’s fine, she told herself. Time to make lemonade out of life’s lemons.

But the minutes kept passing. Ticking. Dragging.

Fifteen minutes later, a man rounded the corner, met her eyes, smiled, and walked toward her.

The greeting was painfully typical: an awkward hug, forced smiles, strained small talk.

As soon as they sat down, Jeremy squinted hard and let out a low moan.

“Are you okay?” Mathilde asked.

“The sun is directly in my eyes,” he said. “Can we move?”

“Well… no,” she replied. “Inside tables are only for reserved customers.” She emphasized reserved, hoping the point would land.

“Damn,” he said. “Will you switch places with me?”

Mathilde froze—appalled, but torn. Every instinct told her to leave, yet she knew if she went home alone, she would spiral.

John’s text flashed through her mind again.

She couldn’t go home. Not yet.

“Okay,” she said.

Once settled, she tried to restart: “So… what are some hobbies that you—”

Jeremy cut her off with another moan.

Jesus Christ.

“What is it now?” she asked, unable to hide her irritation.

“It’s just… so… hot,” Jeremy said, tugging at the collar of his T-shirt and fanning himself dramatically.

Before she could respond, the waitress arrived and asked if they’d like anything to drink.

Jeremy looked at her with pleading eyes. “Just napkins!”

Both women paused, confused, but the waitress reached into her apron, handed him a stack, and walked away.

Jeremy began patting himself down—one napkin at a time. His forehead. His neck. His back. No area was spared.

Mathilde stared at him in open disgust.

She picked up her purse. And left.

Sometimes life is only lemons.