Love Beyond Expectations

Chapter 6: An Awkward Dinner Date

Suho's day had been an unremarkable blur, the hours ticking away with the monotonous tap of keys and the dull glow of screens. It was the subway ride home that broke the pattern. As he stepped onto the train, his gaze found the black woman he had seen many times before. She was striking, always had been, but today a cloud seemed to hang over her. Her usual vibrancy was dimmed, her posture deflated as if the gravity of her world had grown too heavy.

Their eyes met, and they exchanged a nod—a silent acknowledgment between two souls riding the waves of their respective tribulations. She seemed lost in thought, her eyes gazing into the middle distance, focused on a point that only she could see.

Once home, Suho found his routine comforting. The warm water of the shower washed over him, though it did little to cleanse the weariness from his bones. He dressed in silence, choosing an outfit that was unassumingly elegant—a simple, tailored suit that whispered of class without shouting for attention.

The Uber ride to Le Pétale d'Or was smooth, the city lights blurring past as they traversed the streets towards Broad. Briley's suggestion weighed on Suho's mind; the restaurant was reputed to be one of the finest—and most pretentious—in the city.

He arrived, the maître d' greeting him with a practiced smile, and was seated at a table that offered a view of the restaurant's opulent interior. The golden lighting, the murmur of conversation, and the clinking of fine cutlery set the stage for what was meant to be a perfect blind date.

She walked in then, Bexy, a vision of every stereotype that Suho had hoped to avoid. Her hair was a cascade of blonde, styled in loose waves that framed her face with calculated carelessness. She wore a dress that clung to her like a second skin, a bold red that matched the audacity of her persona, paired with heels that clicked authoritatively against the tile.

As she spoke of her adventures in Cancun, of azure waters and sandy escapades, Suho found himself adrift in a sea of feigned interest. The words washed over him, a relentless tide that threatened to erode the last of his patience.

"The Filet Mignon au Poivre," he mused internally, his eyes tracing the words on the menu, imagining the rich flavor of the prime beef, the brandy cream sauce, the truffle-infused mashed potatoes. It was a dish that promised a sensory escape from the present company.

He had just moved on to the Wild Mushroom Truffle Risotto, the description a siren song to his neglected appetite, when her voice cut through his reverie.

"Are you even listening to me?" Bexy's tone was sharp, a pin poised to burst the bubble of his distraction.

Suho flinched, his attention snapping back with a guilty start. "No... um, I mean yes," he stumbled, trying to claw back the threads of her monologue.

"As I was saying," she continued, undeterred, "I was the president of my sorority, and I just loved my days in school."

He nodded, a marionette of social decorum, as she basked in the nostalgia of her college years. But the conversation took an abrupt turn, her curiosity piqued by his heritage.

"Also, what are you? Like Chinese?"

"No."

"Japanese?"

"No."

"You're not Pacific Islander, oh I know, Alaskan." Her head tilted, a caricature of inquisitiveness.

"I'm actually..." Suho began, the words a prelude to an explanation he never got to finish.

"You know what, it doesn't matter, every Asian looks the same."

The statement hung in the air, a discordant clang amidst the evening's symphony. Suho's hand tightened around the napkin on his lap, the fabric crumpling like the evening's promise. His appetite, once whetted by the culinary delights, now retreated into the pit of his stomach.