The evening is looking up

“You disappoint me,” she said.

Folding her napkin, she laid it beside her plate, then looked around the table. “You didn’t just feed me to the sharks, you chummed the waters.”

He watched her rise, but didn’t refute to her accusation. She was right. He invited her out to dinner with his friends, knowing they would challenge everything she believed, and harshly ridicule her for those beliefs.

“I don’t have to explain, nor justify anything to anyone.” Slipping the strap of her purse across her body, she tried to walk past him.

He moved in front of her, blocking her exit. Holding out his hands, he reached toward her.

“You need to rethink that,” she said.

Taking a measured step back, she settled into a subtle fighter’s stance.

“You’re overreacting. You never could take a joke. Just sit back down and stop making a scene,” he said through a fake smile.

“If you put your hands on me, I will put you on your ass.” She spoke in a measured cadence, so softly only he could hear.

Her threat brought a sneer to his lips. Again, he tried to take her arm.

In one fluid motion, she swung her left foot forward, and swept his legs at the knees. At the same time, she grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands, and threw him to the floor. Under the weight of her forward motion, he landed with a satisfying thud.

The other men at the table stood in unison, while the women audibly gasped.

She bent over him as he struggled on his back like a toppled turtle, and whispered through clinched teeth.

“Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me.” Straightening up, she noticed their server and the restaurant manager headed her way.

She held up her hands, and made a swiping motion.

“I’m done,” she said, leaving his friends and other diners in stunned silence. Her date remained supine on the floor with a cracked coccyx, admiring the rustic ceiling of the restaurant’s central cupola.