It had been another long day at work. By the time I got into my car, I was drop-dead tired, dreaming only of my couch and a strong cup of tea.
But that night, hunger won the battle against laziness. On impulse, I pulled over at a restaurant I’d never tried before.
The Entrance
The place looked massive, with heavy wooden doors guarded by a man whose moustache deserved its own postal code.
His face was carved in stone-seriousness, but he was forcing a smile so hard it looked like a punishment. Either his manager had ordered him to “smile more” or some customer had complained that his poker face made them too uncomfortable to enter.
Personally, I always feel bad for serious-faced people. Nine out of ten times, they’re the nicest folks you’ll meet.
Still, it was unsettling when he opened the door and said in the sweetest voice:
“Good evening, Sir. Hope you have a great time.”
That smile… let’s just say it was the creepiest “welcome” I’d ever received.
The Ambience
The doors opened into an architectural marvel. White marble flooring, a high ceiling, and a massive dome painted with Egyptian gods mid-battle.
I stood there gawking until I realized half the restaurant was staring back at me. Not my proudest tourist moment.
I quickly slipped into the farthest corner seat, maroon velvet sofa hugging me like royalty. Behind me, a giant glass wall revealed fish lazily swimming past — as if mocking me for paying to eat their distant cousins.
The place was gorgeous. Which is exactly when it hit me:
“Damn. This is going to be expensive.”
The Order
Before I could sneak out, a waiter materialized by my side. There was no escape.
I flipped the menu with fake confidence and blurted out,
“One Tandoori Chicken… and a cold coffee.”
Classic broke-but-hungry order.
The ambiance was so inspiring, I decided to make use of it. I pulled out my notebook and began scribbling a dark, epic line:
“The cold winds of December carried away his tears as he held his daughter’s lifeless body, blood dripping from his hands. She was only seven. Betrayed by his own blood. He, the greatest warrior of the Akalious army, had lost everything…”
And just when I thought I was writing the next bestseller—
The Couple Next to Me
—my attention got hijacked by the couple at the next table.
The girl looked uncomfortable. “What are you doing? We’re in public. Behave.”
The boyfriend shrugged, “Nobody’s watching. Everyone’s busy.”
Cue my awkward mistake: I was staring. Not intentionally—just lost in thought. But when our eyes met, she shot up from her seat, marched to my table, and hissed:
“Don’t touch me.”
Now, imagine my panic. She was tall, striking, with curves that would make Greek sculptors cry. But all I could think was: Oh God, she’s a psychopath about to accuse me of harassment and extort money.
I stammered, “Sorry.”
She doubled down: “Don’t touch me.”
I snapped back, rolling my eyes: “I don’t wish to touch you. Not now. Not ever.”
But my eyes were already scanning for CCTV cameras, just in case she screamed bloody murder.
The Twist
She suddenly broke into a smile. “But you did touch me. Not the way you’re thinking. I’ve read your blogs. They touched me.”
I nearly collapsed in relief. Hopefully, my face didn’t betray the storm in my chest.
I asked cautiously, “Which blogs did you like?”
Her smile widened. “So it’s true. All those stories actually happened. Even now you’re pretending to be calm, just like with the girl in your ‘Face Off’ blog.”
I blinked. “So… you’ve read my blogs.”
She tilted her head. “Don’t change the subject. Tell me—are your blogs real?”
The Interrogation
I played coy. “Might be. Might be not. Some mystery is necessary.”
“So… something is real in them?”
“Most things did happen to me somewhere, sometime. Maybe not exactly as I wrote them. Don’t ask me what’s real and what’s not.”
“So kind of real.” She leaned closer, eyes locked on mine.
“Am I going to be in one of your blogs?”
I smirked. “Definitely yes. You ruined my chance to write a bestseller tonight.”
She raised a brow. “So what were you writing before I interrupted?”
“Not sure. Something epic. Kingdoms, politics, revenge.”
She laughed. “So basically clueless.”
“Exactly. Stories flow on their own.”
She studied me like a scientist examining a rare insect. “You always add a twist at the end. If you write about this meeting, what’s the twist?”
I leaned back. “Not every story needs a twist. But if you insist, I could make you a serial killer who tried to poison me.”
She laughed, then warned, “I’ll find your blog and comment the real story. Be careful how you portray me.”
“Then I’ll just reply it wasn’t you,” I countered.
The Goodbye
As she turned to leave, she asked, “What are you going to call it?”
I said, “Don’t Touch Me.”
Then curiosity got the better of me: “How did you even recognize me? My blogger photo looks nothing like me. I’m not exactly photogenic.”
Her answer chilled me more than the air-conditioning.
“You still don’t remember me, do you?”
I frowned. “What? Have we met before?”
She smiled—the widest, strangest smile I’d ever seen.
“Sometimes. Somewhere. Don’t ask me when or where.”
And with that, she walked back to her seat.
I muttered to myself, “Damn. Not again. I just hope she comments.”
