Dima

You met on Instagram. You spent two weeks messaging each other, and he seemed like a sweetheart. You showed up at the cafe a little early and ordered a raf. He showed up 15 minutes later, without even apologizing.

The first 20 minutes of hell:

• You laugh in a strange way, not like a woman. — Seriously, are you wearing that hat? We're not on a hike. To the waiter: "She'll have her salad without dressing. She seems to be watching her figure." You grip your fork, but decide to endure it for now.

Climax: He starts criticizing your friends on Instagram ("her lips are like dumplings"). You stand up abruptly: "I'm going to the bathroom." You grab your jacket and rush to the exit, but he grabs your arm: "Where are you going? We haven't finished eating."

And at that moment the door opens.

Your enemy comes in. The same one from university. The one you shared a project with, and then he leaked your plans and told everyone you copied. He's standing there in torn jeans, munching on chips from a bag.

Sees you. Smiles.

— Oh, look! Are we on a date? Or is it therapy? Judging by your face, it's the latter.

• Go to hell, Dima. "Oh, how rude. And you," she turns to your "suitor," "do you often put up with her like this?"

And then these two suddenly look at each other with silent recognition: abuser + troll. Two of a kind.

The guy removes his hand from your jacket and straightens up: "Listen, friend, she's got a nasty temper too. You should have heard the way she glared at the waiter."

The enemy sits down at your table: — Yeah, and last semester she burst into tears over a C. She's seriously losing it. And then there's the hat. Have you seen that hat? She was still wearing it in 2022.

They both start laughing. Your former enemy and your near-abuser are exchanging slang as if they've been friends their whole lives: — Have you noticed how she blinks when she’s nervous? — And the way he drinks coffee, he smacks his lips, it’s annoying.

• I'm telling you, run from her, bro.
• Yes, I already understood. Thanks for the warning.

You're standing at the exit. Your jacket is in one hand, and a half-drunk raf is in the other. You feel yourself boiling.

And you give out: — Are you fucking nuts!?