Dinner with Evil

My first date during the legal separation leading to my divorce was from an online personal ad I posted and turned out to be the first time I heard the words "intersectional feminist". In a small world coincidence, the woman I went out with was the daughter of a family friend and the cousin of a schoolmate though we had never met or even spoken prior to her seeing my dating profile, wherein I clearly stated I was politically conservative. Still, this lady seemed genuinely interested in meeting me and embarking on a relationship. I felt flattered when she asked me to be her escort at her soon to come birthday as our first date. We saw each other for the first time at a Nashville Ethiopian restaurant she had selected for the occasion. I thought it was just going to be us but found a male Jewish musician from New York and of all things, a purple-haired literal sword and fire swallower were joining us and that everyone at the table except me, including the Brooklynite was a self-identified "intersectional femenist". My "companion" looked twenty years older than the photos on her personal ad and fifty pounds heavier. A wise man would have found a reason to leave, but when it comes to affaires de coeur, I have never been too smart. I had never heard of an "intersectional feminist" before this night. The cafe did not serve alcohol but the fire eater had brought a bottle of wine for which we were charged a nominal corkage. I ate the cuisine which was unfamiliar to me. I was the only one there not a vegetarian, but not knowing the ropes, I let my fellow celebrants do all the ordering. Their conversation was all about how terrible, racist, and sexist the nation and our community were and about how exploited the workers and the poor were. I also learned all men, save perhaps present company were rapists. At the conclusion of the dinner which I could not wait to end, I found I was the only one that apparently brought any money or a credit card, but the other members of the party said they would chip in for the tip if I could pay the bill. I ponied up eighty plus bucks and they managed to throw together around five for the tip, declaring their resentment that we (in reality, just me) had been charged corkage. These were cheap, awful radicals and I can tell you there never was or will be a second date.