Tim

My date with Tim started off strangely: he didn't sit down on a chair, but jumped on it, pretending to be a panther. He didn't say hello—he stared, licked his lip, and declared that my presence there was a waste of his time, which I would have to "work off." What followed was a parade of absurdity. When I reached for a napkin, he grabbed my hand and said he was leading this dance. Then he compared me to trash left forgotten for a week. And then he added that I'd soon be apologizing and wouldn't get up off my knees, accompanying this with a nasty gesture with his tongue across his cheek. The final blow was the bill. Tim pointedly pulled out his empty wallet and declared that "a real woman invests in a man of his caliber." I silently paid, left, and blocked him everywhere. Three months passed. At the veterinary pharmacy, a guy in a rumpled hoodie begged the pharmacist to check the vitamins—his corgi, Ricky, was allergic to chicken. He turned around. It was Tim. Calm. Confused. Completely different. He turned pale and admitted that he'd simply been repeating his friends' prompts from the "Predator's Path" chat. After that evening, he realized he wasn't a predator: he loved baking charlotte, watching cartoons, and his dog. He deleted the chat and blocked his friends. As he said goodbye, he tugged at the leash and quietly asked: — I'm banned for life... or is an amnesty possible?