I was trying my best to look uninterested and as if my eyes had not been voraciously gawking the pair for the past hour. My date didn’t seem to notice one way or the other. He was engulfed in an endless monologue about his plans to conquer the world through finance. I could only provide a few pseudo-enthusiastic ‘mmm hmm’s’ and ‘yeah’s’ so as to not completely insult him. But, my thoughts were genuinely stolen by that couple. I couldn’t help but sneak a glance every five minutes to see what they were doing, which was hilarious because they hadn’t moved a muscle since they sat down. They hadn’t even touched their food.

I imagined what they were discussing, hoping that the girl was pleading for the guy to talk to her. He’d respond with an icy glare. Then she would storm out of the restaurant causing napkins to fly with tears rolling down her slender face. Then I would take my cue and vacate a conversation that didn’t include me anyway and sit in the empty chair across from the distinguished and mysteriously chic man. 

He would smile slyly and ask the waiter to bring me a drink without asking what I wanted.

“She’ll have the cranberry sake,” he would say in a thick Eastern–no–Southern European accent.

We would sit in a moment of silence and exchange flirtatious glances at each other. Then he would ask me a question. Not “what is your name” or “where are you from,” but “what do you want?”

I’m thrown off by this and don’t have a clue how to respond.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean by ‘what do I want?’” The waiter brings my sake and I thoughtlessly down the first shot.

He tells me that it is a simple question and that I can answer it however I please. I take a while to come up with a rational response. 

“I want to be happy.” It is practically a question itself as I shrug my shoulders in embarrassment from sounding hackneyed and predictable.

“Then let’s go.”

He leaves some money for the check and we walk past my date who is still absorbed in the conversation that he is carrying on by himself. I grab my half-empty cup of sake and place it next to the talkative one’s Dragon roll. He doesn’t seem to notice and continues his soliloquy. Once outside, my new date and I catch the first cab that passes.

“We’re going to Ave. A between Essex and Norfolk.”

A million and one thoughts race in my head as we silently ride in the cab. What if this guy is some sort of a serial killer? He could lock me up somewhere. I would be trapped in the middle of nowhere in Alphabet City and no one–and I do mean no one–would respond to my incessant cries. This thought floats through my head but somehow I remain contentedly blinded by my mysterious new friend.

“Right here.”

We step out of the cab and walk towards an old building that looks like the bricks had once been red but now were a char-burnt sienna. He notices my reluctance and guides me by the hand.

“This way.”

The inside of this place looks even darker with the thinnest beams of light darting through narrow glass windows and striking the wood paneling. He continues to hold my hand and leads me up to the tall steps of a winding staircase.

His apartment is on the second floor but because of the elevated ceilings it seems much higher. Once inside, he never releases my hand. Like the rest of the building, the inside of his place is somber and somewhat eerie. His décor is very minimalist aside from the plush Turkish rugs sporadically laid out on the floor. His deep red walls are almost bare except for a painting above an antique chair. It is an enormous piece of work that portrays a whirlwind of three-dimensional color. Amongst the quick brush strokes of paint lies a distorted figure of a woman bowing her head. I can’t take my eyes away. I’ve seen her before. 

He gently pulls me further into the room and kneels down on the floor. I mimic his movement. With his hand still cupped around my own he brings it close to his mouth and begins to slowly kiss every fingertip. His lips cover as much of each finger as possible without leaving the tips. I feel like I’m falling from the ionosphere. Every nerve and sensation rushes to my hands and pours out of my fingertips. He could have sucked out my whole sense of touch with those lips. 

He moves his face along the inside of my arm fluidly. I feel his eyelashes lightly tracing a trail up to my neck. I have every intention to say something to clear my drowning head but it is impossible. I’ve already died. I reach for his shoulder and allow him to lead me to an early grave. 

My daydream was interrupted when my date, the self-acclaimed gift to investment banking, asked if I could pay for the bill since he didn’t have any cash then jetted to the Men’s room. Even though I was halfway shaken out of my daze, his ironic request didn’t really bother me. I just took advantage of the open view of my latest fixation. 

The man maintained his uninterested expression while the woman seemed to hang off every word that he wasn’t even saying. It seemed kind of ridiculous. I didn’t notice that the man in charcoal gray had been staring right back at me. 

To my amazement, the needy woman actually left the table. My heart raced as I anticipated my fantasy coming to life. The man, still seeming unphased, reached for his chopsticks and stabbed at his plate of sashimi. His eyes darted in my direction. I saw this as my once in a lifetime chance to say something to him but my date abruptly returned. He said that he had found his money and paid for the bill already. 

I tried to be quick on my toes and think of any possible way to prolong my stay. I just needed to say something–anything–to this man in charcoal, even if it were a mumbled “hi.” He had to hear my voice. Maybe he would remember hearing it in a dream. My date insisted that we leave since he had to get up early “to beat the world’s competition.” I caught another glimpse of my sordid prince, knowing it would be my last, and managed to crack a faint smile. I’m not sure if he smiled back or not but I always like to think that he did.