It Was Meant To Be Like This

It was meant to be like this

Lex Silvas

09/11/25

“A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.” That was my father’s favorite saying. He’d say it every time he wanted to justify some stupid thing: trading in the car for a bigger one, getting into a fistfight with the neighbor, or simply cracking open another beer at ten in the morning. I grew up hearing it like it were some virile mantra, a kind of code of masculine honor. But I don’t think that saying applies to sleeping with men. What happened to me wasn’t planned, anyway. Last night, after liters of alcohol, plenty of marijuana, and a conversation that started with “you look tense”, that saying came back to me with a strange taste in my mouth. Because let’s be clear: I did what a man’s got to do. Only with another man. And now, with a hangover crushing me and my memory blurred, I wonder: would my father have approved? Would he understand that sometimes, what a man’s got to do is face his own desire—or his own fear—without hiding behind worn-out phrases? I don’t know. All I know is that today, at the little office meeting, there’ll be water, soda, and a safe distance from that damned Lance Jackson. Because if there’s one thing a man’s got to do, it’s avoid repeating what he isn’t ready to understand.

My name is Gabriel Kim. Thirty years old. Or just Gabe, to those close to me. Or “take that, Gabe”, as my brain insists on repeating, like a filthy echo from last night. Lance Jackson. That name now lives in a dark corner of my head, beneath a flickering neon sign and smelling of cheap vodka. So forget it. No more Gabe. Call me Gabriel. More formal, distant, clean. Or better yet, maybe it’s time for a new name. Tyrone? Kyle? Anything that wasn’t moaned out by a man while I was out of my mind—and I mean that in the most literal sense possible. The truth is, I don’t remember it all that clearly. And what I do remember, I’d rather not. But memory has claws. And shame, teeth. And now, every time I look in the mirror, I see a man I don’t recognize. Dark hair, messy. Deep dark circles under my eyes. Pale skin, the kind you get from sleeping poorly and thinking too much. The face I see looks older than thirty. It’s the face of someone who’s lost something he can’t even name. Maybe it was control. Maybe it was the illusion that I knew who I was. Maybe it was just peace.

Coming back to my senses, without these awful memories. My name is Gabriel Kim. Thirty years old. Son of Korean immigrants who came here promising themselves a future, only to watch that future get torn apart by ever-more contradictory anti-immigrant policies. My father was a wise man. Died young in a car crash. And I grew up trying to work out what any of it meant amid the silences of our home, over dinners of rice, kimchi, and resentment. Or just Gabe, to those close to me. Or “Take that, Gabe”, as my brain still insists on repeating, to remind me of what I let be done to me. I can’t even introduce myself properly without being constantly reminded of my mistake from the night before. Maybe it was only control I lost. Maybe it was the illusion that I knew who I was. Maybe it really was just peace.

I have to admit—even if it makes me nauseous—that damned Lance, from the right angle and with enough alcohol in his system, actually looks kind of like a girl. Problem solved. My brain, ever creative at the worst possible time, decided I was just having a good time once again with a beautiful, hot woman—the kind you only meet when you’ve already had one too many. In the end, I was fooled. Tricked into sleeping with a man. His lips aren’t bad, actually. And his ass… his ass is a trap. Round, firm, almost cynical. And I hate remembering it. I hate even more that I can’t forget.

Lance showed up late. As always. And when he walked in, my hopes of getting through the evening without being confronted with those memories went straight down the drain. Dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, easy smile, that walk of a man who knows he’s good-looking and that’s all he needs. He walked into the room like he owned the place, clapping people on the shoulder, cracking quick jokes, letting his gaze linger half a second longer than it should. And when he sees me, he freezes. Just for a moment. Then he smiles. Not the smile of someone asking for forgiveness. The smile of someone who remembers. Who savors the wreckage.

I look away. Grab a glass of soda and pretend to be utterly fascinated by the texture of the wall—some stupid, rough wall with peeling paint. But he comes over anyway. Of course he does.

— Gabe — he says, in that deep voice that now lives in my nightmares.

— Gabriel — I correct him, without looking up.

— You okay?

— I’m great.

Lie. I was trembling inside. My throat was dry and my stomach churning like I’d swallowed shards of glass.

He stays silent for a second. Then he laughs. Laughs. As if the whole thing were some private joke between the two of us. As if I’d consented one hundred percent. As if I’d enjoyed it.

— Are you angry with me? — he asks.

— No — I say, curt.

— We need to talk.

— No.

— Just to clear things up.

— There’s nothing to clear up — I say.

— I have a girlfriend, and you know that — he says, whispering.

The line cuts right through me like a cold blade.

— Good for you — I say, stone-faced, my teeth almost grinding together.

— You’re right — he says. — It’ll be better this way.

He takes a step back. Not out of fear. Out of calculation. Lance always knew exactly how far to stand. And I’ve always been terrible at that.

— Friends? — he says, wiping his drink-wet hand on his trousers and then holding it out to me.

I look at his hand. I don’t take it. Out of fear. Fear of remembering what I’d forgotten. Fear of remembering what I felt.

— I’m not leaving until you shake my hand — he says.

I swallow my anger. It goes down burning. And I take his hand.

— See? I don’t bite.

But you moan other people’s names, you son of a bitch, I think, seething with hatred.

— See you Monday at the office — he says, turning his back on me and wandering back into the crowd.

And I stand there, my hand still warm, as if I’ve touched fire.

And that was the end of the story.

The End?

Well… it would truly have been the end if either of us had gotten run over by a bus that night. Which didn’t happen. Because this story is far—far indeed—from being over. After all, come Monday morning I’m going to have to face him at the office. And it’s not as though we were ever great friends before. We’d cross paths by the water cooler, exchange a few words about last night’s movie, the score of some stupid game, all those little things that fill the silence between coworkers. Nothing that would ever explain ending up in the same bed. Nothing that explains what happened. I’m straight. No doubts whatsoever. None at all. But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, as my father used to say. Except now that phrase has turned into a warning. A reminder to myself: never drink again. And above all, never—not under any circumstances whatsoever—be alone with Lance ever again.

On Monday, I had two goals. Go to work as usual. And get myself a date. I downloaded every dating app I could find. The one I paid the most attention to was Match Love. Swiped right on everyone. Blonde, brunette, redhead. Tall, short. Women over fifty, women under thirty. Anybody. The important thing was that she be a woman. Every other requirement I’d ever held was revoked by my inner tribunal of good sense. I gave that good sense a two-day holiday. It deserved it. Or maybe it just no longer had the authority to judge anything at all.

I snatch whatever spare moments I can from work to reply to messages. And lucky for me, these apps are full of desperate women. And how I love that. The smell of desperation first thing in the morning. The ones who send “Good morning, handsome” at 8:42 a.m. without even getting my last name right. The ones who say “You look different” just because I’m not wearing sunglasses in my photo. The ones who ask “What are you looking for here?” as if I’m about to compose them a poem.

To help matters along, I changed my profile picture. It’s a shot of me shirtless, glistening with sweat, the shirt slung over one shoulder—taken on a day I went for a run and decided I looked rugged enough to appear masculine. The lighting’s good, my abs aren’t half bad, and there’s this distant, faraway look in my eyes—which, apparently, works. Because the comments started rolling in.

“Wow, what a body!” “Do you run all the time?” “Teach me how to get that focus.” “You look intense.” “You look like you know exactly what you want.”

If they only knew. If they only knew I’m here solely to put out an internal fire. That every match is just an attempt to prove to myself that I’m still who I say I am. That I’m still straight. That I’m still my father’s son. That I’m still a man who does what a man’s got to do.

Even if it means pretending I’m interested in a woman named Carla who owns three cats and believes “energy is everything.”

At lunchtime, I head straight for Delícia Vegana. Airy place, full of hanging plants from the ceiling, smelling of quinoa and lavender incense. The kind of spot where people speak in hushed tones, wear linen, and always seem about ready to press a crystal or an unsolicited opinion about gluten on you. But I like it here. Not the food—which is always lukewarm, undersalted, and served under names that sound like jokes—but the kind of women who hang around here. Pretentious vegans with doctorates in Ayurveda and yoga certificates earned in Thailand. They always open a conversation with “The food these days is so full of pesticides…” And then I turn on the smile. And then I turn on the charm right after. And just like that: a date secured, the old-fashioned way. No algorithms, no swiping, no bios covered in zodiac emojis. That’s how it was before the internet. That’s how I landed dates back in college. And today, I’m willing to try anything.

I walk in and do a quick scan. Table in the corner: two friends laughing a little too loudly, one with a lotus flower tattoo on her shoulder. Pass. Table alone: a girl with curly hair twisted into a messy bun, reading a book with a black cover. Maybe. Near enough to the window that if anyone walks past and sees me sitting with her, they’ll be absolutely certain I’m straight: jackpot.

I watch her a moment longer before actually walking over. Dark skin with that golden glow only the sun can give. Spaghetti-strap top, shoulders bare, posture relaxed yet self-assured. She chews slowly, as if every salad leaf were a conscious choice. Beside her sits a glass of green juice and an air of someone who meditates before answering anything. The type who says “grateful” instead of “thank you.” The type who truly believes energy is everything. The type who seems to have read every book Rupi Kaur ever wrote and still somehow thinks she’s above being called cliché. Exactly the kind of woman to snap me out of this nightmare I stumbled into drunk.

I straighten my posture, take a deep breath, and walk over to the counter to grab my plate. Today’s special: “Vegan Feijoada with Smoked Tofu.” I almost laugh. But I take it anyway. Because a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. That damned phrase I need to scrub from my brain.

I pick up my tray holding the vegan feijoada—which looks more like a penance than a meal—and walk over to the brunette by the window. She’s focused on her book, chewing slowly, as if every arugula leaf were a spiritual revelation. I step up beside her, wearing that practiced half-smile I’ve honed since college. The smile that says “I’m interesting, but I’m harmless.” The smile that says I can talk about anything, even tofu.

— Is this green juice actually good, or does it just look healthy? — I say, nodding toward her glass.

She lifts her eyes. Brown, large, alert. Looks me up and down. Pauses a second. Two. Three.

— Depends on what you’re looking for — she says. — That juice is excellent for hangovers.

I smile. She’s quick. I like that.

— I’d had one too many last night — I say. — So I know exactly what you mean.

— Then we’re two of a kind — she says.

— I hate coming here at this hour, it’s always so crowded — I remark, glancing around. The place is packed, as usual. — Mind if I join you?

She shrugs, tilts her chin toward the empty chair. I sit down. The chair creaks. My stomach practically does too.

— Gabriel — I say, extending my hand.

— Aisha.

Of course it’s Aisha. It was never going to be a simple name. Never going to be a name without roots.

— Do you come here often? — I ask, already hating myself for sounding like a walking cliché.

— Only when I need reminding that I still have a functioning liver. And you?

— Not always — I say. — But I’m a sucker for good vegan food.

— Good? Here at Delícia Vegana?

— Fair enough, you got me — I say, smiling. — I just like the prices. Never understood why tofu stew has to cost so much, though.

She laughs. I can’t tell if it’s at the joke or at me. But she laughs. And that’s already something. The doorway to a woman’s heart has always been through her laughter.

We keep talking through lunch. I chew slowly—not to savor the food, which tastes like seasoned cardboard mixed with guilt—but to buy myself time between questions. I can’t let the conversation falter. I can’t. Every silence is just a mirror. And I’m not ready to look myself in the face.

I ask her about her life as if I’m conducting a job interview. Where did you grow up? What do you do for work? Do you like it? Any siblings? Ever traveled abroad? What’s your sign? Do you believe in soulmates?

She answers everything with that easy, lighthearted manner, as if she’s floating just above her own life story. Tells me she’s a designer, works in branding, once lived in Florida, loves astrology but isn’t obsessive about it. Says she’s a Cancer with a Scorpio rising. I pretend that means something to me. She talks about an ex who’s still a friend, her mother who brews kombucha, the dog she’s hoping to adopt. I smile, nod, throw in the right lines at the right moments. “That sounds lovely.” “Really?” “Wow, how cool.” All on autopilot. But charming. With that glint in my eye I’ve learned to turn on whenever I want to appear truly interested.

She seems to like it. Or at least, she doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does notice and thinks the effort is sweet. I don’t know. All I know is I’m sitting here, pretending I’m whole, while inside my head I’m still trying to scrub away the memory of Lance calling me Gabe in that voice like filthy velvet.

Aisha starts talking about meditation. About how she learned to breathe better. About how the body holds onto trauma. I almost laugh. But I hold it back. Because maybe she’s right. Maybe my body is holding onto far more than I’m willing to admit.

By the end of lunch, I’m still showing every sign of interest. Even though deep down, all I want is to sleep with her as fast as possible, just to wipe that damned Lance from my mind. His voice still echoes in my head, like a terrible pop song stuck on repeat.

I offer to pay for her lunch. For her pleasant company. For being a gentleman. For the points I’m scoring that might just earn me a spot in her bed later.

— There’s no need — she says. — It was nothing. The seat was free anyway.

— I insist — I say, already standing.

I walk to the register, pay for everything, and come back to grab my jacket and tray. She’s already standing, slinging her bag over one shoulder.

— Thank you very much — she says, with a quiet, guarded smile. — That was very kind of you… Gabe.

— The pleasure was all mine — I say.

We stand looking at each other for a moment. Silence. The kind of silence that’s waiting for a decision. And I decide.

— Look… why don’t we do this again sometime? — I say. — I’ve really loved our talk about processed versus whole foods.

She hesitates. Looks away. Then back at me.

— I did too — she says. — But I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.

— Why not? — I ask, forcing a light laugh. — I’m not that terrible company. Am I?

— It’s not you. It’s me.

— Ouch — I say. — I’ve heard that one before.

— I’m being serious — she says, looking faintly uncomfortable.

— I know what this is — I say, smiling tightly. — You have a boyfriend. I get it.

— It’s not that either.

— Married then? — I ask. — Kids? That doesn’t bother me. I like kids.

— No husband, no kids — she says. — Look… it’s complicated.

She starts fiddling with her phone, clearly trying to wrap this up. But she doesn’t leave. Stands there. Looks at me again.

— Just give me your number — I say. — I’ll call you later. And if we turn out to have nothing in common? I promise I’ll leave you alone.

— I don’t know — she says. — You might not find me quite so interesting once you get to know me better.

— Don’t be modest — I say, smiling. — I have a feeling it’ll be the opposite. You’ll find out I’m just a huge bore.

— Alright — she says, almost sighing. — Hand me your phone.

I pass it over. She types in the number quickly, without even looking at the screen.

— You won’t regret this. I promise — I say. Even though I know it might be a lie. Once I’ve slept with her, it’ll probably be goodbye forever.

She hands me back my phone, gives a small nod, and walks away. And I stand there, holding her number in my hand, my head full of voices that aren’t mine. Voices asking: is this the right thing to do? She seems like a genuinely nice girl, after all.

I head back to work, and after a while I send the messages. Two, actually. The first one is light, almost casual:

“Loved lunch. Hope we can do this again soon.”

The second comes right after, as if I don’t know how to wait:

“If you’d like, I could show you somewhere new. Nothing vegan, I promise.”

I stare at the screen like an idiot. As if she’s going to reply in real time. As if every second of silence were a judgment passed on me.

I glance at my phone over and over. Pretend I’m reading a report, but really I’m just refreshing the messaging app. Nothing.

Aisha turns into a question mark in my head. And I hate it. I hate not knowing. I hate feeling dependent. I hate that even after everything, I’m still trying to prove something.

I look at my profile picture on the app. Shirtless, sweating, shirt slung over one shoulder. The pose of a runner. Of a winner. Of a man in control. A few messages still trickle in, but I ignore them all—because I’m not interested in just anyone anymore. I’m interested in Aisha.

And the worst part: Lance is still there. In my head. Under my skin. In that voice I’m trying so hard to forget.

He walks around the office talking to people as if absolutely nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. That bastard who seduced me when I was drunk and then took advantage of me—with my consent, sure—but all the same, I wasn’t in full possession of my faculties to truly know what I was doing. And it weighs on me. Every time I hear his voice down the hall, too sweet, too polite, I feel the urge to punch a wall.

Then, suddenly, my phone buzzes. It’s Aisha, to my immense relief. She sends a little smiling face emoji. It lifts my spirits immediately; I’d begun to worry I’d messaged too soon, that she’d simply thought me strange for doing so.