Proxy

Proxy

By: Maxwell Cocu

The mall was alive with its usual rhythm—footsteps, laughter, the hum of conversations blending into something indistinct. Yet wherever they passed, something shifted.

Men looked.

Some glanced. Others stared longer than they should.

Lydia Tan noticed, of course. She always did. Even in her early fifties, she carried herself with a quiet elegance that didn’t ask for attention—but never failed to receive it. Her sleeveless blouse fell cleanly against her frame, understated yet striking. Beside her walked her husband, Victor—casual, composed, and observant in ways that most would miss.

Victor noticed the men too.

But unlike them, he wasn’t looking at Lydia.

He was looking through them.

“Three o’clock,” he murmured under his breath.

Lydia didn’t turn her head. “I saw him.”

The man stood near a railing, alone. Not pretending to browse, not checking his phone. Watching.

Victor slowed his steps.

“Let’s try him.”

There was no hesitation in Lydia’s reply. “Alright.”

The man looked slightly startled when they approached him, as if caught in something he hadn’t expected to be acknowledged.

“Good afternoon,” Victor said smoothly. “I hope you don’t mind me being direct.”

The man blinked, straightened. “Uh… sure.”

Victor gestured lightly toward Lydia. “My wife and I were about to have coffee. I have to step away for a bit—business. I was wondering if you’d be willing to keep her company.”

Silence.

The man looked at Lydia, then back at Victor, unsure if this was some elaborate joke.

“I—sorry, I don’t think I understand.”

Lydia smiled gently. “It’s simpler than it sounds. Just coffee.”

Victor added, “There’s a café just ahead. You can get a table. I’ll join you shortly.”

The man hesitated only a moment longer before nodding. “Alright… I mean—yes.”

“Good,” Victor said. “Thank you.”

The café was warm, bathed in late afternoon light spilling through tall windows. Marble tables, soft conversations, the clink of porcelain.

Lydia and the man sat close—closer than strangers usually would.

“I’m Lydia,” she said.

“Daniel.”

She studied him with quiet curiosity. “You looked like you had nowhere else to be.”

Daniel gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “That obvious?”

“Only to someone paying attention.”

He nodded. “I work nearby. Took a break. Didn’t feel like going home just yet.”

“And home is…?”

“Empty,” he admitted. “It’s just me.”

Lydia’s expression softened. “No wife? No one waiting?”

Daniel shook his head. “Never quite worked out that way.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Work, mostly. Time slips. You think you’ll get around to it… then suddenly you’re in your forties and still explaining why you’re alone.”

Lydia smiled faintly. “My husband is in his fifties. I am too.”

Daniel looked surprised. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Most don’t.”

She glanced down at her cup, then back at him. “Victor is… busy. Always has been. Business, travel, meetings. Important things.”

“And you?” Daniel asked.

“I learned how to be patient,” she said. “And then… I learned how to be honest.”

Daniel tilted his head. “Honest?”

“We talked,” she said. “About loneliness. About companionship. About how presence matters, even in small ways.”

“And he was okay with that?”

Lydia met his eyes. “He suggested it.”

Daniel blinked. “Suggested…?”

“That I find someone,” she said calmly. “Someone who could be there when he couldn’t. Not to replace him. Just… to stand in.”

Daniel leaned back slightly, processing. “That’s… not something you hear every day.”

“No,” Lydia agreed. “It isn’t.”

There was a pause.

Then, quietly:

“Is that what this is?”

Lydia didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she leaned just a little closer.

“What do you think?”

Daniel didn’t respond with words.

He leaned in.

The kiss was soft—tentative at first, then settling into something warmer, more certain.

When they parted, Lydia’s eyes flickered briefly past him.

Daniel followed her gaze.

Victor sat at a nearby table, a cup of coffee untouched before him.

He raised his hand.

A small, approving thumbs up.

Daniel exhaled, half in disbelief. “He’s really… okay with this.”

Lydia’s voice was calm. “He’s watching.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

She held his gaze. “Does it bother you?”

Daniel hesitated.

Then shook his head.

“No.”

The hotel suite was quiet, insulated from the noise of the world below.

Soft lighting. Heavy curtains. The kind of space designed for privacy.

Victor entered last, closing the door behind him.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, gesturing lightly toward the room.

Lydia stepped further inside, her movements unhurried. Daniel followed, still adjusting to the surreal weight of it all.

Victor took a seat by the window, crossing one leg over the other, his phone resting loosely in his hand.

“Don’t mind me,” he added.

Lydia turned to Daniel.

“You’re still thinking.”

“Can you blame me?” he said.

“No.”

She stepped closer.

“This only works if you stop trying to understand it.”

“And just… feel it?” he asked.

She smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

Daniel studied her for a moment longer.

Then he stepped forward.

Their closeness returned, more natural this time. Familiar, almost.

“You’re not what I expected,” he admitted quietly.

“Neither are you,” Lydia replied.

“Is that a good thing?”

She didn’t answer with words.

She leaned in again.

This time, the kiss lingered.

Behind them, Victor remained seated—watching, silent, composed. At some point, his phone lifted, the faintest motion, capturing moments without interruption.

Daniel became aware of it—and then, slowly, stopped caring.

The room seemed to narrow around them, their world shrinking to proximity, breath, presence.

They moved together toward the bed without quite deciding to.

Sat.

Paused.

Lydia’s hand rested lightly against his chest.

“Still unsure?” she asked softly.

Daniel shook his head.

“No.”

Victor’s voice came calmly from across the room:

“Then don’t hesitate.”

Silence followed.

Not empty—but full.

And the rest unfolded not in urgency, but in quiet, deliberate choice.