I used to tell myself I’d settle down if I could just find a woman who tried. I’d had enough of women who’d given up; who showed up for a first date with their hair in a messy bun, no makeup, wearing flip flops. The last time it had happened, I’d left feeling dejected.
Is this how little a woman cares about going on a date with me?
I wanted someone who’d dress like she was going somewhere worth going, and meeting someone worth putting in a little work. I wanted a woman who was put together.
When I met Maria online, her profile photos stopped me cold—she had beauty that felt almost unreal. I sent my usual test message: I like a woman who puts in effort.
Her reply came instantly. Then I’m exactly what you’re looking for.
I did my part. I went shopping for a new shirt. Our date was to happen at a nice club where they were having standup comedy, so I picked some dressy blue jeans, and added a sport coat and nice shoes. I made sure I smelled nice, and took my truck to the car wash, vacuumed it out, and made sure it smelled nice too, with a light coconut scent.
“I’m exactly what you’re looking for,” she had said. She wasn’t lying.
I picked her up at her condo. Her hair spilled in polished, glistening waves over her shoulders, catching the light like threads of black silk tipped in gold. We drove to the club, and her skin was flawless, luminous under the low amber street lamps.
Her eyes—God, her eyes—were framed in a perfect sweep of black eyeliner, drawn with surgical precision so fine it could have been painted by a jeweler. The upper line flared outward into a feline flick, sharp enough to cut the air, while her lower lashes were kissed with smoky charcoal that made the whites of her eyes glow like moons. The eyeshadow above was layered in gradients: molten bronze fading into deep, mysterious plum, and at the very top, the faintest shimmer of champagne gold.
Her lashes—thick, curled, impossibly dark—blinked slowly, each movement deliberate, each pause long enough for me to realize she was studying me. Each bat of her lashes felt deliberate, like a hypnotist swinging a watch.
Her lips were sculpted perfection, full and precise, wrapped in a lacquered crimson that glistened with the faintest wet shine. It was the kind of red you’d only ever see in a forbidden kiss from an old movie—half promise, half warning.
She wore designer ripped jeans the color of midnight, stitched with fine silver threads that winked under the lights as she moved. The denim clung like a secret, outlining the curve of her hips in ways I hadn’t known fabric could. Her muted pink top shimmered and wrapped her as if it were liquid.
When we walked into the club, the room shifted. Heads turned. Conversation stalled mid-sentence. When we reached the table, the air felt heavier.
We talked. Or rather, I tried to. Every time I lost my place, her mouth would curl just slightly—knowing she’d done it on purpose. Her perfume was warm and sweet, like honey melting over dark spice, and it wrapped around me until I forgot there was a world outside of her. She had a way of making me forget my name.
By the third date, I was canceling plans with friends. By the fifth, I lived in a state of constant anticipation. The moment she texted, my pulse jumped. I could smell her before I saw her.
One night, I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall of the restaurant. I looked thinner. My eyes, hollow. My smile, automatic.
“Maria,” I started, “you’re—”
She touched my cheek, and the thought dissolved like sugar in tea.
“I’m exactly what you asked for,” she whispered.
I was a visually stimulated man, and my stimulation was off the charts. Her beauty was a drug I couldn’t name, and every glance was another hit. I’d already forgotten what it felt like to be sober
I knew she was taking something from me. I knew I was fading.
But the truth?
I’d let her take it all.
Troy Larson is a writer, digital content creator, and broadcast veteran with hundreds of podcast and broadcast credits to his name. Reach out on Facebook and on Instagram.
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