''The Lie Detector Date''

When I signed up for the dating experiment, I thought it was a joke.

“One night. One date. One lie detector.” the ad read, plastered across my feed in loud red and black font. I assumed it was some bizarre social experiment or a marketing stunt. But then I got the confirmation email with an NDA, a time, and a place.

Against all better judgment, I went.

The café was real enough—a trendy downtown spot with dim lights, indie music, and too many plants. A back corner was sectioned off with velvet ropes. A small neon sign above the partition read:

THE TRUTH TABLE

Behind the ropes, a table sat with two chairs and, absurdly, a polygraph machine in the middle. Wires. Dials. The works. It looked like something straight out of a detective show.

A hostess in a red blazer greeted me. “Hi, are you Jamie?”

“That’s me,” I said, trying to sound casual. “This whole thing is… real?”

“Oh, very,” she said with a wink. “Your date will be here in five. Just relax, sign this waiver, and remember: you both agreed to honesty.”

She handed me a pen.

I hesitated, then signed.

Why not? At worst, I’d get a story. At best? Who knew?

Her name was Tess, and she walked in like she owned the place—confident, curious, wearing a leather jacket and a smirk.

“You must be Jamie,” she said, sitting across from me.

“And you must be brave.”

She chuckled. “Brave or bored.”

We shook hands. The hostess connected us to the machine—just a finger sensor each. “Don’t worry,” she said, “it only records stress levels, heart rate, and vocal changes. If it lights up, you might be fibbing.”

The machine beeped once, then glowed a soft green.

Tess leaned forward, eyes playful. “So… truth or dare, but without the dare.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Only consequences.”

We started with small talk.

“Do you like dogs?” Tess asked.

“Love them,” I said. The machine stayed green.

She smiled. “Okay, good. I judge harshly on that one.”

“My turn,” I said. “Have you ever ghosted someone?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes.”

The machine turned yellow briefly.

“But,” she added quickly, “only once, and I regretted it.”

The light steadied.

We both laughed. “This is weirdly intense,” I said.

“It’s like emotional strip poker,” Tess replied. “And we’re already down to our socks.”

As the night went on, the questions got deeper.

“Have you ever cheated?” I asked.

Tess looked at me, serious now. “No.”

The light stayed green.

She took a breath. “Do you still have feelings for your ex?”

I hesitated.

The machine flickered orange before I even answered.

“Okay, that’s a yes,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s… complicated,” I admitted. “I’m not in love with them. But the history doesn’t vanish overnight.”

“Fair.”

She sipped her drink.

“Have you ever pretended to be someone you're not, just to make someone like you?” she asked.

I nodded. “More times than I want to admit.”

The green light glowed steadily.

“Then maybe that’s honesty now,” she said softly.

We talked about family, regrets, ambition. We learned about each other’s worst dates, deepest fears, and most irrational pet peeves. Hers was people who bite ice cream. Mine was wet socks.

She asked, “Have you ever been in love?”

“Yes.” The machine stayed green. “Have you?”

Tess looked down for a second. “Once.”

The light flickered yellow, then green.

“Why did it end?” I asked.

She smiled sadly. “He wanted someone else.”

Green.

“His loss.”

“I tell myself that.”

Near the end of the evening, the hostess brought us dessert—chocolate lava cake and espresso.

Tess looked at me over her fork. “Final question?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you scared to fall for someone again?”

I stared at her for a moment. The question landed heavier than I expected.

“Yes,” I said.

The machine buzzed green.

“But I’m more scared of not trying.”

Tess smiled.

Then she reached over and turned off the lie detector.

“Good,” she said. “Because I think we’ve told enough truth for one night.”

We sat there in silence, sharing cake, the machine dead between us.

Something about the absurdity of it all—dating with wires, monitored by machines—made the honesty easier. Safer, even. Like we were allowed to be real because the machine demanded it.

But as she reached for her coat and stood up, she turned to me with a grin.

“No more machines,” she said. “Next time, just you and me. Over ramen?”

“Deal.”

And for the first time in a long time, I walked out of a date feeling like something had actually started.