So, a client/friend and I are sitting in a family restaurant several weeks ago and we weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but some performances are loud enough—and too tragically awkward—not to witness. Across from us, a couple, probably in their late forties, were clearly on a first date. You could tell by the awkward energy, the slightly-too-formal shirt he wore (untucked but trying), and the hopeful-but-resigned look on her face that screamed, “Please let him be normal.”
He wasn’t. From the get-go, this man launched into what can only be described as a monologue that would have made Shakespeare proud, if Shakespeare had been into bad romantic-comedies, a review of every Pink Floyd album, and extended metaphors about life through the lens of 1990s movies. We shouldn’t have, but we quietly laughed and clocked it—eighteen minutes straight without pause except for taking quick bites. No questions. No conversational handoffs. Just him, flapping his gums and waving a burger like a baton as he spoke, and explaining why “The Godfather III is actually misunderstood.”
Meanwhile, his date sat there like a polite hostage. Nodding occasionally, sipping water like it was whiskey, and glancing toward the restroom with the longing of a woman who’d just remembered she left the oven on at home. She took two bathroom breaks in half an hour, which we all know is code for “I need a breather before I gnaw my own arm off.”
We watched him try to reach across the table to touch her hand; a bold move for a guy who had yet to let her finish a sentence. She smoothly retracted it like a blackjack dealer clearing the felt. Hand gone and interest gone. Her mind? Probably hovering over the exit, waiting for her body to catch up. And you could feel it. That slow, sinking ship of a date. The kind where you imagine her texting a friend in the bathroom: “This date sucks big time. Give me an excuse to get out of here fast.”
Eventually, she reemerged, powered through the rest of her meal in silence, and when it came time for the check, she stood up first. No lingering. No “this was fun” fakeout. Just a quick “thanks” and a beeline for the door and her car. Alone. It looked like someone fleeing the scene of a crime. He stayed behind, looking confused. He probably wondered if he could have improved his chances by bringing up his conspiracy theories about the decline of CDs after dessert instead of during the appetizer.
And look, I’m not trying to be cruel here. Dating is hard at any age. It’s awkward, vulnerable, and full of weird energy exchanges. But, gentlemen—and I say this with a voice that hopes you find happiness with someone: she is not a prop in your life story. She’s a human being with a voice, so let her use it. Ask a question and then another question based on that answer. Be genuinely interested, or fake it if the topic bores you. At the very least, chew with your mouth closed and don’t conduct the Boston Symphony Orchestra with your burger mid-sentence. Conversation is not a TED Talk. It’s a two-way street. If one person is doing all the talking and the other is slowly Googling emergency exits with their eyes, you’re not on a date—you’re holding someone hostage in your dinner theater.
And it’s not just about romance. This is true for life in general. If someone is sitting across from you, engage with them. Ask about their day, thoughts, and favorite type of cheesecake; be curious and present. Or at least be brief. That night was a masterclass on what not to do on a first date. If your date goes to the bathroom twice in thirty minutes and leaves without a goodbye, your burger soliloquy needs some serious editing.
John Berkovich Talks 