“And we should be intimate every evening,” Viktor declared, completely calm as he cut a piece of steak. “No excuses like ‘I’m tired,’ ‘I have a headache,’ or anything along those lines.”
At first, I honestly thought I had misheard him.
No, seriously. I’m forty-seven—I’m long past the days of being a naive girl who blushes to her ears and drops her fork just because someone mentions the word ‘intimacy.’ But when a man drops a statement like that on a first date, right between the salad and the main course, your brain still needs a moment to process what just happened.
I looked at Viktor. He was quietly chewing, occasionally nodding to his own thoughts, and looked as if he’d just told me the opening hours of the nearest supermarket.
“Every night, really?” I asked, just to be sure.
“Well, yes,” he replied. “What’s so unusual about that?”
That’s when I was certain I’d heard him correctly.
We met through a dating app. Nothing out of the ordinary: Viktor sent me a like, I looked through his photos and saw a pretty ordinary man—not showing off his bare chest in front of some random car—so I decided to respond.
He was forty-three. According to him, he worked at a construction company in supply management. In his photos, he looked decent: a shirt, a watch, a neat haircut. He didn’t get rude in chat, never demanded a full-body shot, and could even use punctuation correctly. After several years of online dating, you start valuing these things as rare virtues.
We chatted for about a week. Viktor usually texted first, asked how my day went, told me about his work, and sometimes tried to joke. His sense of humor didn’t have me laughing out loud, but at least I never wanted to turn off my phone, throw it out the window, and head off to live in a monastery.
Then he suggested we meet at a restaurant.
“It’s quiet there, we’ll be able to sit and talk,” he explained.
I agreed. The restaurant was close to my place, and at forty-seven, that sometimes matters more than a picturesque window view or a violinist playing at your table. I really didn’t want to spend an hour and a half getting back home through the whole city, wondering why I’d even bothered going on this date.
Viktor arrived exactly on time. That alone made a great impression on me. He was wearing a dark shirt, had a pleasant scent of nice cologne, and held a single rose in his hand.
Just one.
I’m not really a fan of huge bouquets on a first date. You end up sitting there with an armful of flowers and no idea where to put them, then walk home looking like a local talent show winner. So one rose felt like just the right gesture.
The first twenty minutes went surprisingly well.
We ordered salads, main courses, and a glass of wine each. Viktor talked about his work, and I shared my own experiences. I’m an administrator at a private clinic. Sure, my job isn’t particularly romantic, but every day I discover new ways people find to be late for appointments and then blame the administrator for it.
“So, how long have you been living alone?” Viktor asked.
“It’s been three years now.”
“After your divorce?”
“Yes.”
He nodded in understanding.
“Do you have any children?”
“A daughter. She’s an adult now and lives on her own.”
“That’s good.”
I smiled.
“Good for whom, exactly?”
Viktor laughed.
“It’s good for a relationship. When the kids are little, it’s so much more complicated. But when they’re grown, they don’t get in the way.”
That last remark didn’t sit well with me. Not that I was planning to have my daughter move in and check my future husband’s documents every morning. But the word “in the way” sounded a bit unpleasant. Still, I chose not to make a big deal out of it. People do sometimes say the wrong thing on a first date. I once told a man I appreciated silence, and he somehow thought I was suggesting we stay quiet for the entire evening.
We kept the conversation going.
Viktor wanted to know if I liked cooking.
“Depends on what I’m making—and who I’m making it for,” I replied.
“What do you mean by that?”
“For myself, I can just chop up a salad and call it a great dinner. But if I’m cooking for loved ones, I try to make something special.”
He nodded approvingly.
“That’s how it should be. I’ve always thought a woman should provide home-cooked meals for her man.”
I took a sip of wine.
“And what about the man? Can he cook?”
“Why would he need to?”
He asked this completely seriously, without even cracking a smile.
“Anything could happen. The woman could get sick, be late at work, or travel somewhere.”
“There’s always takeout. You can order food. But I don’t intend to live off delivery meals. My stomach wouldn’t handle it.”
I glanced at his plate. Viktor was finishing a steak cooked by the restaurant. Apparently, his stomach only approved of food made by others when there was a linen napkin on the table and a waiter clearing his empty plates.
“And what if the woman works too?” I asked.
“So what? Everybody works nowadays.”
“So she comes home after work and immediately starts making dinner?”
“Who else do you think should do it?”
I really wanted to answer, “Whoever gets hungry first.” But I decided to keep quiet.
Not because I had nothing to say, or was lost for words. In fact, I was genuinely curious how much more he’d reveal. Sometimes, if you just listen, a person will tell you a lot more about themselves than they planned.
The waiter brought out the main courses. Viktor waited until he left the table, then spoke up again:
“Actually, I believe in a traditional family.”
“And what does that mean to you?”
“The man should be the head of the family. He makes the important decisions. The woman is responsible for keeping the home cozy, maintaining it, and not arguing over every little thing.”
“And what if he makes the wrong decision?”
“And why do you think it would be wrong?”
“Everyone makes mistakes sometimes.”
“But a man must take responsibility for his actions.”
“And how exactly should he do that?”
Viktor frowned slightly.
“You really love making things complicated.”
“I just want to understand what you mean.”
He set his fork down on his plate, deciding to explain his point with an example.
“Let’s say the weekend is coming up. I believe it’s the man’s job to decide how the family spends that time. If I want to visit friends at their cottage, that’s where we go. If I decide we stay home, then we stay. There shouldn’t be a situation where the woman suddenly makes plans to visit her friend or comes up with her own separate ideas.”
“What if you discuss everything in advance?”
“Of course, things can be discussed. But the final decision should always be up to the man.”
I nodded calmly.
“Got it.”
Apparently, Viktor took my restraint as agreement with his views. In any case, it made him really open up even more.
He went on to explain that women shouldn’t go to clubs, meet up too often with single girlfriends, or post photos in overly revealing outfits. That last comment nearly made me laugh: unless you count my medical checkup snapshots, it had been ages since I’d posted anything that could remotely be called revealing.
Next, Viktor moved on to how a woman should look at home.
“She should always look feminine,” he announced. “It’s not okay to always be in an old bathrobe. A man comes home from work wanting to see a beautiful woman by his side.”
“And what should a man look like at home?” I asked.
“Sweatpants. What’s wrong with that?”
I was starting to enjoy myself—not the date itself, but observing the man in front of me. Viktor truly believed that sweatpants on a man meant comfort at home, while a worn-out bathrobe on a woman was a sign family life was falling apart.
That’s when he got to the subject of intimacy.
Apparently, it should happen every evening. No refusals, no talking about being tired. As Viktor explained, a man shouldn’t have to beg for affection from his own woman.
“But what if she’s genuinely exhausted from the day?” I asked.
“Everyone gets tired.”
“And what if she’s sick?”
“We’re talking about normal relationships here, not a hospital.”
“What if she just doesn’t feel like it?”
He gave me a look like I’d just suggested eating soup with a fork.
“If a woman loves a man, she wants him, simple as that.”
I set my fork and knife down on my plate.
“Viktor, can I clarify something?”
“Of course.”
“Are you describing the kind of relationship you personally want?”
“Exactly. I prefer to discuss everything upfront to avoid any unpleasant surprises later.”
“That does make sense.”
He visibly relaxed. Judging by his expression, Viktor thought I appreciated his honesty, shared his life principles, and was already mentally picking out a kitchen apron.
I took a sip of water, looked him straight in the eyes, and said:
“Then let’s talk about what I want.”
“Go ahead, tell me.”
If you’re looking for a partner who will cook home meals for you every day, arrange weekends around your plans, keep the house tidy, take care of herself, and greet you with a smile every evening, well, I have a few requirements too.
Viktor leaned back in his chair and looked at me with interest.
“And what are they?”
“You cover all my expenses.”
He blinked in surprise.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Exactly what I said. You pay for the rent, utilities, groceries, clothes, medicine, vacations, taxi rides, and trips to the beauty salon. Basically, everything. Plus, you send me a set amount of money every month for personal expenses.”
Viktor stared at me in silence, clearly not expecting this turn in the conversation.
I continued to explain:
“That way, I can cut my work hours, or even quit altogether. I’d have enough time to cook every day, keep up the house, look after myself, and not fall into bed exhausted every night. You did say you can’t stand hearing excuses like ‘I’m tired.’ Well, if you don’t want me to be tired, I won’t need to spend eight hours at the clinic, then trudge to the store, and then still come home to cook your borscht.”
Viktor’s face started to flush red.
“Are you being serious right now?”
“Completely serious.”
“So you want to live off me?”
“And you expect me to serve you for free.”
“I’m talking about a normal family!”
“That’s what I’m talking about too.”
“No, you’re only thinking about money right now.”
“And you’re only thinking about free labor.”
Viktor straightened up abruptly in his chair.
“Household chores and relationships aren’t actual work!”
“Great! Then let’s take turns with cooking, make weekend plans together, and only get intimate when we both actually want to.”
“You’re completely twisting everything!”
“I’m not twisting anything. I just added the cost of actually meeting all your demands.”
“Cost?” he growled through clenched teeth. “Are you trying to sell yourself?”
“No. I’m simply offering clear and honest terms. You want full board: home-cooked meals, a convenient routine, and a woman who’s always ready to meet your needs and never allowed to be tired. But all that care takes time, energy, and money.”
“You’re all the same!” Viktor snapped irritably. “All you care about is money!”
At that point, I couldn’t help it—I laughed.
“Viktor, for the last ten minutes you’ve been telling me a woman has to cook for you, obey you, and be ready for intimacy every night. And yet somehow, I’m the one labeled materialistic!”
He snatched his phone from the table.
“I thought you were a grown, reasonable woman.”
“Honestly, I thought the same about you.”
Those words finally pushed him over the edge.
Viktor called the waiter over and asked for the bill. While we waited, he sat in silence, looking away, clearly trying to calm his irritation. Eventually, the waiter returned with the check.
The total was three thousand four hundred.
I reached into my bag, about to grab my wallet, when Viktor suddenly pulled out a 500 note from his own wallet and tossed it onto the table.
And I mean tossed it, with all the drama of an actor in a cheap TV series, like the main character making a big show as he storms out of a restaurant to prove a point.
“I’ve paid for myself,” he declared.
I looked at the bill he left, then at his now-empty plate where he’d just finished his steak, at the wine glass, and the salad.
“Viktor, your steak alone cost over a thousand.”
“You can cover the rest yourself. After all, you’re an independent woman, aren’t you?”
He stood up, put on his jacket, and added one final remark:
“That’s why women like you end up alone at forty-seven!”
With those words, he headed for the exit.
But honestly, he didn’t walk out like a man confident he’d just put a woman in her place. He looked more like he was making a quick escape—he even left so fast that he forgot his scarf draped over the back of his chair.
I stayed seated for a while, studying the scarf he’d left behind.
Soon, the waiter came over. He was a young guy, maybe twenty-five. From the look of it, he’d overheard almost our entire conversation, even though he pretended he was only paying attention to the dishes and cutlery.
“The gentleman forgot his scarf,” he remarked.
“Let it stay here for now. Maybe he’ll come back for it.”
The waiter glanced at the door where Viktor had disappeared.
“I highly doubt that,” he replied.
I couldn’t help but laugh again. Then I paid for the entire dinner myself. The 500 that Viktor left, I gave to the waiter as a tip. He definitely deserved it, if only for never once smiling while my date lectured me on what a real woman should be like.
I decided to walk home. The rose was sticking out of my bag, and I ended up taking Viktor’s scarf with me after all. The waiter explained that the restaurant wasn’t a storage facility.
As I was nearing home, my phone buzzed. A message from Viktor.
“You misunderstood me. I was only talking about mutual respect.”
I read his message twice. The second time just for my own amusement.
A little while later, another message arrived:
“Do you have my scarf?”
I replied:
“Yes. You can pick it up after you transfer me 2900 for dinner.”
After that, Viktor went radio silent. I could see him typing, then stopping, and after a while, the typing sign would appear again.
Finally, my phone buzzed with one last message:
“Petty.”
I put my phone away and kept walking.
The next day, I took the scarf to a local drop-off for the homeless. It was warm, nearly new, and in great condition.
Honestly, that turned out to be the only truly useful thing that ever came out of knowing Viktor.