Chapter 1: The Sushi Standoff

She picked the place for our first meeting: a trendy sushi spot in downtown Savannah, where the average bill per person is about $110.

To set the scene, the restaurant was all exposed brick and Edison bulbs—the kind of place where couples line up for selfies beneath a neon sign. Outside, downtown Savannah buzzed with tourists, horse carriages clopping by, the air tinged with ocean salt and honeysuckle.

She showed up half an hour late. By then, I’d already drained two glasses of ice water and scrolled halfway through my newsfeed, checking my watch every five minutes. The hostess kept shooting me that sympathetic look reserved for folks stood up by Tinder dates.

Her entrance was pure theater. Her first words weren’t an apology, but a complaint: “Traffic was a nightmare!” No ‘sorry,’ no sheepish grin—just glided in like she was royalty. She fluffed her hair, tossed her purse onto the seat like she was dropping anchor, and let out a sigh loud enough to turn heads at the next table.

To be fair, she looked fantastic—tall, a little Natalie Portman energy, dressed to kill. She wore a teal blazer over a white camisole, designer jeans, ankle boots that probably cost more than my entire outfit. Even the hostess looked impressed, like she couldn’t believe she’d actually shown up.

I tried to keep things breezy. “Well, it’s Saturday—of course there’s traffic.” I gave her a half-grin, hoping to set a friendly tone.

She sat down like she owned the place and asked the waiter for the menu, sunglasses still on. Only when the waiter came did she finally greet him—like she was a regular who never worried about the check.

Trying to be polite, I said, “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I already ordered a few things. Feel free to add whatever you want.”

She didn’t even acknowledge me. Instead, she reeled off sushi rolls and appetizers faster than the waiter could write. The scent of fresh wasabi hit my nose as another plate landed, but all I could taste was my own awkwardness.

Finally, she gave me a real look and half-joked, “Why do you look even older in person than in your photos?”

She tilted her head, lips pursed in mock confusion—a jab you’d expect from a sibling, not a first date.

That was the first time anyone had called me old. I was stunned. I caught my reflection in the window—dark circles, hair a little thinner than last year. Maybe she had a point. Thirty hits different when someone says it out loud.

Maybe she was just blunt. Or maybe Savannah’s dating pool had changed more than I realized.

I managed a polite smile, but she was on a roll. “I heard from my aunt that you graduated from a top college. With a degree like that, your salary must be pretty good, right?”

She leaned in, arching an eyebrow, fingers drumming on the table. The whole thing felt like a job interview—except without any charm. “It’s okay. About $3,000 a month.”

My fingers tightened around my glass. Was this a job interview, or just Savannah’s new dating normal?

She looked surprised: “Only $3,000?” Her face twisted like I’d said I was a part-time clown.

Only? I was shocked at her reaction. In 2022, the average monthly salary in Savannah was just over $1,000. No matter how you slice it, I was well above average—but from her tone, you’d think I was making peanuts.

I tried to keep my expression neutral, but my pride took a hit. You’d think I’d told her I worked part-time at Waffle House.

Before I could respond, she kept going: “$3,000 sounds like a lot, but after taxes, food, clothes, rent, and transportation, how much can you really save? Marriage, house, car, supporting a family, kids—do the math, it’s not that much.”

She ticked off each expense on her fingers, her voice rising just enough that an older couple at the next table shot me a sympathetic look. It was like she was giving a TED Talk on personal finance.

I couldn’t help but ask, “So how much do you make?”

“$700.”

Well, this is awkward. After taxes, I have about $2,300 left. She makes $700. And she’s telling me I don’t make enough?

I fiddled with my napkin, half-wondering if this was a hidden camera prank. Maybe Ashton Kutcher would pop out of the kitchen.

She didn’t seem to think there was anything odd about it. She rattled off arguments like she’d memorized them from Instagram:

“For a girl, making seven or eight hundred a month is pretty good. All the girls I know make about that much.”

“If I made three or four thousand, and my boyfriend also made three or four thousand, don’t you think that would be weird?”

“Men are supposed to be responsible for earning money and supporting the family. Women just need to look pretty and keep things together at home. That’s how it’s always been.”

She quoted these lines like gospel, hands waving animatedly, as if every word had its own hashtag. I half-expected her to say, "Like and subscribe!"

Whether you argue or not, it’s just awkward. I could feel the air at the table thicken—like someone brought up politics at Thanksgiving.

She asked again: “You’re not from here, right? Did your parents help you buy a house in Savannah?”

She said it like it was obvious every parent just hands over a house. I had to laugh—internally, at least.

Even on a blind date, you don’t have to start with salary and housing questions. Not in the South. My mom would be mortified. You’re supposed to talk about hobbies, or at least ask if the food’s good.

Whether two people click, you can usually tell after a few sentences. I was pretty sure this wasn’t going anywhere, so I didn’t bother telling her the truth.

“I don’t want to rely on my parents.”

Maybe it was my imagination, but she seemed to roll her eyes. “With your salary, you’ll be saving forever before you can buy a house.” She said it like she was talking about the weather—just another Savannah fact.

Luckily, the food arrived. The server slid our plates onto the table with practiced grace, breaking the tension like a Little League umpire.