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.

He thought of his mother, her fierce pride in their heritage, her fiery spirit that would have reared at such ignorance. He could almost hear the slap she would have delivered, a reprimand not just for the insult but for the disrespect to diversity and individuality.

Suho's mind raced. He was trapped in an evening that was spiraling into an abyss of disappointment, where the company was as palatable as sour wine. He pondered his next move, the weight of expectation heavy upon his shoulders, the need for civility warring with the urge to correct her.

The restaurant, with its opulent décor and hushed tones, felt miles away from the subway, from the nod he had shared with the woman whose depth of character was palpable in her silence. He longed for that silent exchange, for the unspoken understanding that had passed between them.

In that moment, Suho realized that sometimes the most eloquent conversations were those that required no words at all.

Bexy's voice was a relentless river of words, flowing over the banks of Suho's patience. "And then, you wouldn't believe it, but I actually learned how to make this amazing tequila cocktail while I was in Cancun. I mean, everyone kept coming to me, because I was just that good at it."

Her laughter tinkled through the space between them, a sound that seemed to demand attention rather than invite it. Suho nodded along, his responses reduced to a series of "Mhmm" and "Really?" that did little to stem the tide of her self-absorption.

"And like, everyone was so envious of my tan. I mean, look at this," she said, extending her arm across the table, her voice a trill of vanity that sliced through the restaurant's ambient symphony.

The arrival of their food was a welcome interruption, the waiters carefully placing the plates before them with a flourish of professionalism. The Filet Mignon au Poivre and Wild Mushroom Truffle Risotto were culinary masterpieces, their aromas a sweet escape from the one-sided conversation.

But before Suho could even think of taking his first bite, Bexy leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with expectation. "So, Suho, where's my gift?"

"What gift?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Well, when I go out with a guy, as their token of appreciation, they give me a gift," she explained, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world.

Suho could only stare, perplexed. Was this a thing now? He was completely out of his depth.

"It could be flowers, jewelry, a sonnet, or even cash," Bexy continued, her hands coming together in a slow rub at the mention of cash, as if to warm up the cold concept of this transactional relationship.

A silence fell over the table, heavy and uncomfortable. Suho felt as if he had been transported to another world, one where the currency was not just money, but expectations and pretenses he couldn't afford—or care—to meet.

"You know, I don't think this is...we're going to work," Suho found himself saying, the words tumbling out with a mix of relief and disbelief.

Bexy's expression transformed from flirtatious to incredulous. "Excuse me? Are you breaking up with me on our first date?"

Suho took a deep breath, his appetite completely vanished. "Bexy, this isn't a breakup because this isn't going to be anything. I think there's been a misunderstanding."

Her laughter was sharp, a crystal glass tapped with a knife. "Wow, you're like, really serious. You know, most guys just play along."

Suho stood, the movements of the diners and the soft music of the restaurant swirling around him as if he were in the eye of a storm. "I'm sorry if you were expecting something else, but I believe in honesty and clearly, we're not on the same page."

He placed enough cash on the table to cover both their meals and a generous tip, his manners impeccable despite the absurdity of the situation. "I wish you all the best," he said, not unkindly, before turning to leave.

As he walked away, the restaurant's opulence felt more like a gilded cage than ever before. He longed for simplicity, for authenticity—for something real.

Outside, the cool night air was a balm to his frayed nerves. Suho's steps were light as he made his way down Broad, the weight of the golden evening lifted from his shoulders. He realized, with a clarity that cut through the night, that no amount of money or societal pressure could ever buy the peace of being true to oneself.