He brought his own breeze to dinner

He suggested a rooftop restaurant because he looked "particularly good outdoors." As a woman who once chose a bar for its flattering bathroom mirror, I wasn't about to judge. Then he arrived with a rechargeable fan on a tripod. He aimed it at himself, opened his shirt collar one button, and asked whether the breeze looked spontaneous. I said it looked rechargeable. Every time I spoke, he rotated the fan toward me and said, "Your coverage." I thought he was filming. He wasn't. He just wanted dinner to feel cinematic. The fan blew pepper into his water. He called that atmosphere. It blew our receipt under another table. He called that foreshadowing. When the server asked him to turn it off, he requested a table "with naturally occurring protagonist wind." I finally said I didn't think we were a match. He held up one finger, increased the fan speed, and asked me to repeat that while looking toward the skyline. I left. He texted, "The ending felt abrupt." Apparently I was supposed to stay for the credits.