Maya and Aiden waited for a taxi on the corner of 42nd Street and 3rd Avenue in Manhattan. Aiden raised his arm to hail an empty cab. The taxi stopped across the street at a red light. When Maya glimpsed the blinking red light, a memory suddenly flared—her first date with her ex: they kissed as soon as they got into a yellow cab.
“I’m really tired tonight. I think I should go home and rest. Let’s meet another time.”
Maya said quietly. Aiden lowered his arm with a disappointed look.
“Then… may I have your phone number?”
Maya climbed the stairs slowly and entered her apartment. The dark, cold air inside made her shiver. In her dress, she flopped onto the bed. When she met Aiden’s gentle blue eyes—so attentive, so empathetic—Maya couldn’t help but pour out her thoughts, in a way she never usually did.
“Shall we go out? I’d love to hear more of your story somewhere quiet.”
“How about a drink at a nearby bar?”
Maya suggested. Aiden replied:
“Or… why don’t you come to my apartment for a drink?”
His soft voice echoed in her mind. She felt warmth spread through her. She turned on the ceiling fan and stared at it turning clockwise. Her heart fluttered as if the fan had suddenly reversed direction. Should she have followed him? He was the kind of man she wanted to take a second chance with. If she could just spend a weekend with him, basking in the lazy morning sunlight, breathing would be enough to make her happy. But her thoughts drifted to past boyfriends and a former husband. Maybe Aiden was just like them. A wave of unease washed over her.
That evening, she had attended a company party where her friend Irene worked. Her modernized traditional Chinese dress accentuated her shoulders. A deep red wine in hand, her brown skin contrasted beautifully with her black dress. Irene introduced her to Aiden, who’d been eyeing her even before the introduction. He brushed his blonde hair back, captivated by her silhouette. It felt magnetic between them.
Two days later, on a sunny Sunday, Maya received a text from Aiden and headed to a restaurant at Columbus Avenue and 83rd Street. A young Asian waitress in black trousers, white shirt, and apron came to take their order. After Maya ordered, Aiden quietly murmured something to the waitress. The noise around masked their exchange. He winked at her and turned to give Maya a steady, blue-eyed look. She felt like she was being pulled into the Caribbean Sea—her body aflame
“Do you know that waitress?”
“No.”
“Then… she must have taken a pretty special order?”
“I’m allergic to peanut butter. I’ve been hospitalized seven times.”
“Wow. Eating out must be a headache.”
“Once, I even went to the hospital because of a dessert. I didn’t bring my epinephrine injector today.”
“Do you always carry it?”
“I don’t trust restaurant food. I seldom eat out and prefer cooking at home.”
This made Maya recall her days as a student in New York, working part-time in restaurants. She remembered her managers warning about customers with food allergies.
Aiden’s fries looked delicious—and he was ravenous. He polished off his plate in silence. Maya still had half her meal left, but his plate was clean. He pushed his aside and wiped his mouth. Maya lost her appetite and pushed her plate away too. Aiden excused himself to go to the restroom. The waitress, with a look that said she wanted to usher out a troublesome guest, stood holding the bill. After a moment’s hesitation, Maya paid. When Aiden returned, he said he’d pay next time. Maya felt a twinge of irritation on their first date but responded with a smile.
They exited the restaurant. The sky was cloudless and strikingly blue. The fading awkwardness floated away like an unanchored cloud. Maya wanted to stay with Aiden.
“For late fall, it’s so warm. Shall we grab another drink? Know anywhere nice?”
They walked two blocks to a bar and sat at the stand-up bar counter. Maya ordered red wine, Aiden white. He drank quickly and thought: She’s very interested in me. How can I bring her to my place tonight? I’m confident I can succeed. After just 3 encounters, things usually go that way. Once I sleep with someone, they get easy. A childhood memory flickered—his mother in a poor Mississippi farmhouse, tired and shouting, “I must've been crazy. If I’d known he was incapable, I wouldn’t have married him.”
Aiden downed another drink and ordered again. Maya wondered—why is he drinking so fast? Surely he’ll pay. Her glass was still half full, but he was on his third.
“I’m okay.”
He smiled as if entranced by the music. Maya suddenly felt a strong urge to kiss his profile, absorbed by the smooth sax sound of David Bowie – Ziggy Stardust. What kind of man was he? Just like her father—a flirt. Her father used to scan women on the street and strike up conversations when he liked what he saw. Her Japanese mother and Kenyan father had a whirlwind romance—but why did dad cheat, spar with mom, and leave? The past felt blurry yet painfully similar.
Aiden, now on his third drink, excused himself to the bathroom. His blond hair brushed his shirt’s collar, his proportions perfect. Maya thought his silhouette was like her first love’s. She remembered dating a man in college for six years only to lose him to a friend. She married another in anger, lived as DINKs for four years, then divorced. Quietly dating after, she was betrayed again. Now a workaholic with a solid career, she wondered—if she hadn’t married in anger, where might she be? Yet here she was, still craving love after so much betrayal. Would she grow old alone, medicated for depression?
A song ended and another began—but Aiden hadn’t returned. Feeling awkward, Maya looked to the bartender who placed the bill in front of her. $12—one drink’s price. Had Aiden paid? She paid hers without asking. Aiden returned awkwardly and they left. The sudden late-autumn night felt chilly and foreboding. Maya tugged at her collar.
“That place was pretty cheap for the quality. Nice bar.”
He didn’t respond, staring across the street. Maya’s mind flickered like neon. Did he pay only for himself? Or did the bar mischarge? She stayed silent.
“My apartment is close by. Let’s go for another drink.”
He whispered, stroking her back softly.
“I have to get up early tomorrow and I don’t want to drink anymore.”
Maya replied coolly.
“Then... I'll invite you over with food next time.”
She waved goodbye, feeling unresolved, as she headed toward her building.
As he climbed the apartment stairs alone, he thought: She’s not like other women—serious and unaffected by alcohol. She seems to be looking for marriage. But he despised the idea of marriage—free to enjoy women without strings. FWB would suit him best.
A week later on Saturday morning, he texted Maya:
“That dress you wore that day was stunning. Brown skin and black dress—so sexy. I have feelings for you. Would you like to come over? I’ll cook.”
Flattered, Maya rationalized—he’s normal, so why is he being petty? Maybe a visit to his apartment could help understand him.
At his place, while he cooked, Maya sipped wine and asked:
“Do you live alone?”
“My brother lived with me before, but he’s moved to Brooklyn.”
“I’m divorced. How about you?”
“I haven’t found the right woman. I bought this apartment with work and paid off the mortgage. That’s why I didn’t have time to meet someone.”
“You’ve got a good job and your own place. That should attract women.”
“I’m picky. I don’t want to marry the wrong woman.”
“A girlfriend?”
“It’s been almost three years.”
His hobby-cooking anchored the evening, and his anchovy pasta paired with Maya’s wine was delicious. They sat on the couch with John Coltrane – In A Sentimental Mood playing. The sax gently eased Maya’s nerves. Aiden moved closer.
“You must have a stiff neck from working on computers, like me. Let me massage it.”
He massaged her neck, then stroked her hair.
“Your hair is so soft... I like dark hair and dark eyes.”
He leaned in to kiss her; she leaned in but stopped. He didn’t push. His gaze drifted to her legs, and his hand settled on her knee. It slid under her skirt—she felt a rising warmth. Should she just give in? But these moves felt familiar, too familiar. She slid away, almost falling from the couch. He reached to catch her—but she recoiled, set herself upright, and demanded:
You’e dated many women, haven’t you? What kind of women?”
He leaned back and stopped touching her. Though he didn’t detail his exes, it was clear—he was a playboy.
“My mom’s visiting from California tomorrow. I need to go home and finish some things.”
A week later at 4 p.m. on Friday, he texted:
“Want to come over tonight?”
Maya responded firmly:
“Not that route. Let’s eat dinner and meet at that bar again. It was cheap and nice.”
At the bar, he waved as Maya approached, sitting atop a stool. By the restroom, an old thin man looked beaten by life. A lone light emphasized his cheekbones and loneliness. Maya thought—if she didn't reach out to Aiden, she'd be sitting here alone like him. Aiden’s hand traced her knee. She ordered wine; he got beer. He sipped slowly, and when her glass emptied, he said he wanted to go. The bill came—he stared at it. She put her $10 share and left. He followed; they walked without him speaking. Under the dark sky, he stared at her direction. Maya hesitated, followed. In the alley to his place, he stared at her silently. She said nothing, waved farewell as she walked away. His cold gaze flashed like a shutter in her eyes. She turned quickly, looked back—he didn’t return her gaze and vanished. His dark silhouette terrified her as if she had seen a monster. Hands deep in pockets, she crossed the street in the opposite direction.
For three weeks, no word from Aiden. She wanted to reach out, but fear of repeating old pain stopped her. Almost a month later on Friday, he texted:
“Want to come to my place?”
She replied calmly:
“Not that. Let’s have dinner and then go to the park for a walk.”
Walking in the park, he thought: She's 39, slim, dark-skinned, graduated from a top business school and works for a big company… If I could flirt my way into her bed, I won’t regret it. Maya was already sitting on a bench. He arrived five minutes late, sat beside her. Without prompting, he started talking about exes—from one who rushed by taxi to sleep with him on his call, to someone he met once a week for six months just for sex, to dating White, Black, Asian women—proudly saying he never initiated sex; women did. Maya wondered—why is he bragging? Does he expect her to do the same? A Golden Doodle wearing a glowing necklace approached, sniffed her, then trotted back to its owner.
“It’s already 10. Time to go home.”
After that, Aiden bombarded her with texts. Maya didn’t initiate contact, but responded to his messages. Most of their conversation was about sex. She, being divorced and an adult, rolled with it—but she found the explicit direction growing tiresome. Whenever it edged higher, she tried to redirect the topic. Distance and cautious texting felt safer. Thankfully, he stopped pushing to come over—only texts remained.
Maya had lived alone for years, working and saving. She felt foolish letting Aiden go so easily—loneliness made her cling. She wanted a chance at a serious, stable relationship. But her intuition felt off; her weakness for waiting felt self-loathing.
She called Irene.
“I've met Aiden a few times, but I just can't figure him out.”
Irene replied:
“I don’t know him well, but I heard he dated a Chinese colleague in the next department.”
Maya asked:
“You know her?”
“I greeted her a couple of times. She transferred shortly after the rumor. I can ask around if you want.”
Days later, Irene called back:
“Well, apparently they met at a company dinner 12 years ago. Started as coworkers, but got serious five years ago. No real dates—just sex. She tried bringing up love and marriage. It was on-and-off until she got tired—moved departments and found a good guy. She said he used to go shopping for women on weekends, seduced shapely women regardless of race, slept just with them. Before her, he hit on a Black woman at a market, a Japanese woman visiting the U.S., and other Asian women.”
“Maybe it was the peanut allergy scare— a tactic to avoid paying for dates out. If dining out risks hospitalization, she’d stay home.”
“Exactly. She said it was an excuse to avoid spending time and money. His method: invite women late to his place, have sex, let them go early. Target vulnerable women—divorced, foreign Asian or Black—and use them for sex only.”
“What a psycho. If he wasn’t so rich, maybe—but picking on divorced or newly arrived foreign women like that? And that peanut allergy story.”
“Maybe he counted on them wanting residency or needing protection, then used their vulnerability to avoid spending on them.”
“Unbelievably slimy. Why live like that?”
“The world’s full of weirdos. We just have to stay safe.”
After hearing Irene’s words, Maya muttered to herself: “Crazy. Who does he think he is?” But still, she waited for his texts. Every ping made her heart race, fingers shake. When she saw:
“Hi,”
Her hand trembled; she didn’t respond. A week later:
“Are you ok?”
She couldn’t decide whether to answer. Gripping her phone tightly, she sat there nervously, unable to put it down. She read the message over and over, as if trying to find a hidden meaning behind those three words. Then she deleted it.
Maya began biting her nails, then reached for a bottle of red nail polish. She sat cross-legged on the rug and carefully painted her toenails. Her hands trembled, and the red polish smudged beyond the nail edges. She applied another coat. The color spread even more.
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