Maya and Aiden waited for a taxi at 42nd Street and 3rd Avenue in Manhattan. Aiden raised his arm toward an empty cab. The taxi stopped at a red light across the street. As the red light blinked, a familiar silhouette flickered over Maya’s vision—the heat of that first day she met her ex, kissing him the moment they stepped into a yellow cab.
Maya shook her head and spoke in a calm, measured voice. “Actually, I think I’m too tired. I should go home and rest. Let’s meet again next time.”
Aiden lowered his arm and looked disappointed. “Then, can I have your number?”
Maya climbed the stairs slowly and entered her apartment. She shivered in the pitch-black, freezing air of the room. Still in her dress, she threw herself onto the bed and thought about her meeting with Aiden.
When she met his kind blue eyes—eyes that seemed to listen and empathize—her inner thoughts had poured out effortlessly. It was so unlike her. “Shall we go? I’d like to go somewhere quiet and hear more of your story,” he had said. “How about one more drink at a bar nearby?” Maya suggested. “Instead of that, why don't we have a drink at my apartment?” The memory of his soft voice made her skin flush. She turned on the ceiling fan. She stared at the blades spinning clockwise for a long time. Should I have followed him? Suddenly, the fan seemed to spin in reverse, and her heart sank with confusion. He was a man she wanted to take a chance on. If she could just spend a weekend with him and wake up to the warm morning sun, she felt simply breathing would be enough to be happy. But then, memories of her ex-husband and past boyfriends surfaced. Aiden might be just like them. A chilling look she caught on his face flashed in her mind, and a sense of dread coiled around her body like a snake.
Earlier that evening, Maya had attended a company party for her friend Irene. Her modern Chinese traditional dress accentuated her shoulder line. Her brown skin and black dress paired perfectly with the glass of red wine in her hand. That was where Irene introduced her to Aiden. He had been watching her even before the introduction; running his hand through his blond hair, his gaze was fixed on the back of her neck. They were drawn to each other like magnets.
Two days later, on a sunny Sunday, Maya received a text from Aiden and met him at a restaurant on Columbus Avenue and 83rd Street. A young Asian waitress in black pants and a white shirt came to take their order. After Maya ordered, Aiden leaned in and whispered something to the waitress for a long time. His voice was buried under the music, and Maya couldn't hear a word. A sense of alienation sat on the table like a cold appetizer.
Aiden gave the waitress a knowing wink, then turned his blue eyes back to Maya, staring intensely. Maya felt as if she were being pulled deep into a Caribbean sea. “Do you know her?” “No.” “You must have ordered something very special then.” “I have a peanut butter allergy,” Aiden said. “I’ve been rushed to the hospital seven times because of it.” “Wow. Eating out must be a real ordeal for you.” “Not long ago, I ended up in the ER after eating dessert at a restaurant. I was in such a rush today that I forgot my EpiPen.” “Do you always carry it?” “I’m anxious about restaurant food, so I rarely eat out. I mostly cook at home. I enjoy cooking, too.”
Maya remembered her days working part-time at a restaurant while studying in New York—the manager’s nagging voice about being careful with customers who had food allergies.
The fries on Aiden’s plate looked delicious. He ate them hungrily and in silence, as if he were starving or simply thrilled to be eating out after a long streak of home-cooked meals. Maya’s plate was still half-full when his was already empty. He pushed the plate away and wiped his mouth. Maya, losing her appetite, pushed her plate aside as well. When Aiden went to the restroom, the waitress brought the bill. She stood there as if she wanted to kick the 'dangerous customer' out as quickly as possible. Maya, feeling awkward, simply paid the bill. When he returned and realized she had paid, he said he would get the next one. Though Maya felt a prick of annoyance on their very first date, she responded with a smile.
They left the restaurant. The sky was high and blue without a single cloud. Walking beside her, Aiden seemed to glow in the sunlight. Maya’s annoyance slipped away behind a passing cloud. Wanting to stay with him longer, she asked, “It’s warm for late autumn. Shall we have a drink? Know any good places?”
They went into a bar two blocks away and sat at the counter. Maya ordered red wine; Aiden ordered white. He gulped his drink down. She’s definitely interested in me, he thought. How do I get her to my apartment? I can probably get her into bed tonight. Usually, it takes four hours, or the third meeting at most. Once you sleep with them, women are easy to handle. Then a flicker of doubt crossed his mind. Is she looking for a husband? She’s the best I’ve met so far, but I want to avoid marriage. He remembered his childhood in rural Mississippi—the dilapidated house where his exhausted mother would scream at his father, "I was crazy. If I knew you were such a useless man, I never would have married you." It was a past he wanted to erase.
Aiden kept ordering more wine, drinking as if he were in a hurry to be somewhere else. Why is he drinking so fast? Maya wondered. Surely he’ll pay this time? Her glass was still half-full, but he was already on his third. “I’m fine,” he smiled in response to the music. Maya felt an impulse to kiss his profile as he seemed lost in David Bowie’s "Ziggy Stardust." The singer's gravelly voice was captivating. What kind of man is he? A womanizer like my father? Her father used to scan women on the street and strike up conversations if they had a good body. Her Japanese mother and Kenyan father had fallen in love at first sight, yet her father’s cheating led to constant fights until he finally walked out. I guess my fate isn't much different from my mother's, she thought.
After his third glass, Aiden got up to go to the restroom. His blond hair swayed against the collar of his blue T-shirt. He was perfectly proportioned. Maya thought his back looked like that of her first love. She had dated her first boyfriend for six years in college, only for him to leave her for a friend. Out of spite, she married a man who had been chasing her. They lived as a "DINK" couple for four years until he had an affair with a coworker. After the divorce, she focused on work until she met another man through a friend, only to be betrayed again. Now, she was a successful workaholic with plenty of investments. What if I hadn't married out of anger? Would I be receiving warm love somewhere right now? It frustrated her that after being burned so many times, she still craved a man’s love. She couldn't stand the boredom of being alone. Will I die just clinging to my antidepressants?
One song ended, and then another, but he didn't return. Feeling awkward, Maya caught the bartender’s eye, and he handed her the bill. She sat up straight and glared toward the restroom, then glanced at the check. It was 12 dollars. The price of one drink. Did he pay for his own already? she wondered. Instead of asking, she just paid it. When Aiden finally returned with a clumsy stride, they stepped outside. The autumn night had turned gloomy and cold. “The bill was smaller than I thought,” Maya said, wrapping her coat tighter. “It’s a cheap and nice bar.” Aiden either didn't hear her or pretended not to. He stared across the street in silence. Maya’s mind felt as chaotic as a flickering neon sign. Did he pay for his own in advance? Or did the bartender forget his drinks? The unresolved questions weighed on her, and she fell into a silent, heavy pout.
“My apartment is close. Let’s have one more drink there,” Aiden whispered, stroking her back. “We have work tomorrow. I don’t want to drink anymore,” Maya replied coldly. “Then I’ll cook for you next time and invite you over.” They waved goodbye at the corner leading to his apartment, Maya carrying a heavy heart full of "homework" yet to be solved.
As Aiden climbed his stairs, he thought, She’s not an easy one. She doesn't even change color after drinking. That serious attitude... she's definitely looking for a husband. He hated the idea of a life like his parents', struggling for money and raising kids. He wanted to stay single and enjoy his freedom. He found the "love talk" and the dating routine tedious. A "Friends with Benefits" relationship with a woman who had a good body and was financially stable would be perfect.
A week later, on Saturday morning, Aiden texted Maya. After some small talk, he added: “The clothes you wore that day were great. Your brown skin and that black dress look so sexy together. I have special feelings for you. How about you? I want to cook for you. Come to my apartment.” The compliment opened Maya’s heart. It’s strange, she thought, how can a man with a good job and good looks be so stingy? Maybe if I visit him, I’ll understand him better.
While Aiden was cooking, Maya sipped wine and looked around. “Do you live alone?” “I used to live with my brother, but he moved to Brooklyn.” “I’ve been divorced once. What about you?” “No, I just haven't met the right woman yet. I saved up, bought this place, and finished the mortgage. Maybe that’s why I haven't met anyone.” “With a good job, an apartment, and your looks, you must have plenty of women.” “I’m very picky about who I spend my time with. I don’t want to regret marrying the wrong woman.” “Any girlfriends lately?” “I haven't dated for almost three years.”
As he claimed, he was a good cook. The anchovy pasta he made went perfectly with the white wine Maya brought. Afterward, they sat on the couch. Aiden played John Coltrane’s "In a Sentimental Mood." The soulful saxophone pushed Maya deep into the cushions. Aiden sat closer. “Your neck is stiff from working at a computer all day. Let me give you a massage.” He kneaded her neck, then touched her hair. “Your hair is so soft. I love black hair and black eyes.” He leaned in to kiss her. Maya felt herself being swept away, but she stopped just before their lips met. He didn't push. His gaze shifted to her legs. He placed his hand on her knee. It began to slide up her skirt. Maya felt a surge of heat. Should I just let him? she wondered. Then she remembered—all the men from her past had used this same move. She pulled back so abruptly she almost fell off the couch. She pushed him away, sat up straight, and asked, “I bet you’ve dated many women. What were they like?” Aiden sat back and didn't touch her again. He wouldn't give details, but Maya could tell he was a playboy. “My mom is coming from California tomorrow, so I have things to do at home. I should go.”
The following Friday at 4 PM, Maya got a text. “Want to grab a drink at my place?” Tired of being asked to his apartment, she replied firmly, “Let’s just meet at that bar from last time after dinner. It was cheap and nice.” Aiden sat by the window and watched Maya cross the street. She sat on the stool next to him. Near the restroom, a thin, elderly man sat alone. Maya met his eyes—they were weary and sad. In the dim light, his cheekbones stood out, highlighting his loneliness. If I don't hold onto Aiden, will I end up like that man, killing time over a single drink? Just then, Aiden’s hand fumbled with Maya’s knee. She ordered wine, he ordered beer. Unlike the first time, he drank slowly. When Maya’s glass was empty, he suggested they leave. The bartender brought the bill. Aiden stared at it for a long time, making no move to pay. Maya placed a ten-dollar bill on the table for her share and walked out first. He followed. Without asking, he began walking toward his apartment. Maya hesitated but followed. At the alley leading to his place, he stared at her. Maya said nothing, waved goodbye, and turned to leave. His cold gaze struck her like a flash of lightning. When she turned back to look at him, he was shaking his head and disappearing into the dark. Seeing his retreating figure made her skin crawl, as if she had seen something horrific. She thrust her hands deep into her coat pockets and crossed the street in the opposite direction.
Three weeks passed without a word from Aiden. Maya wanted to reach out, but her intuition—the fear of repeating her past tragedies—held her back. Then, on a Friday nearly a month later, he texted: “Want to come to my place?” “Let's meet at the park after dinner instead,” she replied. “Let’s walk for some exercise.”
As Aiden walked to the park, he thought, A charming 39-year-old with a small face and a slim body, a graduate of a top business school at a big company... if I can just get her into bed, I won't regret the effort. Maya was already waiting on a bench. Aiden arrived five minutes late with a solemn expression. Without being asked, he started bragging about his past women. He told her about a woman ten years ago who would jump in a taxi and rush to his place whenever he called, and another he saw for six months just for sex. He boasted about having dated white, black, and Asian women, claiming he almost never had to ask for sex because the women always brought it up first. Maya wondered, Why is he telling me this? Is he telling me to act like them? Just then, a Goldendoodle with a glowing green collar ran up and wagged its tail at her. Maya petted it and said, "Hi." The dog tilted its head as if telling her to go home and sleep, then ran back to its owner. “It’s already 10:00. Time to go home,” Maya said.
After that, Aiden texted frequently, as if her lack of reaction was making him anxious. Maya never texted first, but she waited for his messages and always replied. Most of his talk was about sex. Maya, being a divorced adult, tried to play along at first, but the level of explicitude kept rising. Whenever it got too much, she would try to change the subject, but he would always steer it back. She decided she needed to keep her distance and just get to know him through texts. Fortunately, he stopped asking her to his apartment and just kept messaging.
Having lived alone for so long, Maya felt a reluctance to let him go. Is he too good to throw away? Am I just that lonely? She wanted a stable life and a serious marriage. Even though her gut told her something was wrong, she hated her own weakness for waiting for his texts.
She called her friend Irene. “I’ve met this guy Aiden a few times, but I can't figure him out. I haven't dated in so long, I don't know what to think.” “He’s in a different department, so I don’t know much,” Irene said. “But I heard a rumor he dated a Chinese woman in the office next to his.” “Do you know her?” “We’ve said hello a few times. She moved to a different company shortly after the rumors started. I’ll ask around and see if I can get her contact info.”
A few days later, Irene called back. “So, Aiden met that Chinese colleague 12 years ago at a company dinner. They were just coworkers for a while, but started dating seriously 5 years ago. She said they never had a real date—just sex. Whenever she brought up love or marriage, they’d break up and get back together. It happened three or four times until she finally got exhausted, changed jobs, and now she’s met a good man. She told me that even while they were together, Aiden would go 'woman shopping' on weekends, seducing any woman with a good body. He did it with a black woman at a market, a Japanese woman on a business trip, Asian tourists... he targets everyone.”
“Maybe it’s because of his peanut butter allergy?” Maya suggested. “He said eating out is dangerous for him.” “That’s exactly what the other woman said,” Irene countered. “The peanut butter thing is just an excuse. He uses it to avoid spending time or money on dates. It’s a trick to get women to come to his apartment late at night for sex and kick them out early in the morning. He hunts for financially stable but vulnerable women—often black or Asian women—just for their bodies.”
“What a psycho!” Maya exclaimed. “He has a good job and money. Why would he prey on divorced women or vulnerable newcomers? What does he even gain from living like that? And the peanut butter thing... really?” “He targets women who might be looking for a green card or stability, thinking he can use their vulnerability to get sex without spending a dime. It’s a calculated, cheap tactic he came up with.” “I can't believe there are people like that. How can anyone live so pathetically?” “The world is big and full of creeps. We’ll never understand their dark minds. We just have to be careful not to get caught.”
That night, Irene’s voice echoed in Maya’s head like a haunting melody, keeping her awake. “What a freak. Who does he think I am? So cheap,” she muttered. And yet, she still waited for his text. Every time her phone buzzed, her blood felt like it was hitting a dam at her heart. Her pulse would quicken, and with trembling hands, she would check the screen.
“Hi,” the message came from Aiden. Her hands shook, and she felt a feverish heat. She didn't reply. A week later, another came. “Are you ok?” Maya gripped her phone, unable to set it down, wavering between replying and ignoring him. She read the "Are you ok?" over and over as if looking for something more hidden in the letters, then finally deleted it. She began biting her nails, then reached for her red nail polish. Sitting on the rug, she carefully began painting her toenails. Her trembling fingers caused the red liquid to bleed past the edges of the nail and onto her skin. Instead of wiping it away, she painted over it, thicker and darker. The more she layered it, the more the stain grew—large, messy, and hideous. Just like her history with men.
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