First message
You met Amy on Tinder a few days ago. She seemed surprisingly down-to-earth. Straightforward, easy to talk to, and refreshingly uninterested in showing off or talking about money.
You agreed to meet for dinner. That evening, you pulled up outside her house. Nice neighborhood, well-kept yard. Everything seemed normal.
You rang the doorbell. Nothing. You rang again, a little longer this time.
“Amy,” you called. “We have dinner reservations.”
The door reluctantly cracked open. A woman peeked at you through the narrow gap.
“I’m not ready. Sorry.”
“I can wait. How much time do you need?” you asked.
She hesitated, then opened the door a little wider.
Holy shit. This woman was an Amazon. Six feet four inches of pure gorgeousness.
“I’m not going to be ready. I tried, okay? I just… I can’t,” she said, her voice trembling, before shutting the door.
She hadn’t listed her height on Tinder. But was that really a problem? Apparently, it was for her. And whatever was going on, it clearly had nothing to do with you.