11:54 PM on a Friday, under drizzling lights and next to the low hum-drumming of an air conditioning unit, I met her in the alleyway behind a KTV bar, where she was crouched on top of a sewer grate, smoking. I only knew the time because I checked my phone before stepping out for fresh air, fourth in the queue to sing, already searching for an excuse to leave my colleagues early. Still in office attire, dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, I was careful not to scuff my shoe tips on the curb even though I knew it was a hopeless endeavor. She had been wearing jeans more tattered than whole, a black cardigan covered in glittering pins closed tight around her chest with one arm, and I instinctively worried that the chill of the night air was seeping onto her skin and through. She was down to the last third of her cigarette, the smoke dissipating into the rain. The music that blasted through when I opened the door interrupted this scene, almost like one out of a movie, and for that, I felt a sudden sense of apologetic shame.

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I couldn’t see her face until she turned, eyes drooping low and cigarette hanging off her lips, a single breath away from tumbling onto the asphalt and gravel sludge beneath our feet. A yellowed streetlight illuminated us from above, moths pecking gently at its sides, and the harsh overhead lighting made her dark eyes jut out starkly against her pale cheeks. She blinked at me and pursed her lips, ash falling onto her loafers, and just like that, I was enamored. 

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Despite, or maybe because of, what I’m sure had to have been a blown-away expression on my face, she only looked me over one time from top to bottom, scrutinizing, before standing to spit her cigarette out onto the ground and stamping it into the gutter in two, three, delicate steps. Then she passed me without a word, only a glance and a nod, heading back inside and leaving me alone with a thundering pulse and a teenage confusion I hadn’t felt in more than a decade. I almost thought I was having a heart attack. What an embarrassing trip to the ER that would have been.

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The nature of living in an urban city consists of passing impressions and apparent infantile amnesia. A stranger I walk past while entering a FamilyMart does not exist in my memory after they leave my sight. The cashier inside might as well be missing a face and voice; I wouldn’t know if they are the same person every time I enter, like a middle-aged mother, or possibly a young man of college age, or an elderly woman. And it’s not like the world has ever lacked beautiful people. My anomalous attachment to this one, beautiful stranger, then, I couldn’t figure out. A portion of her vague visage continued to linger in my mind’s peripherals. The image of her back, hair a river of black, interspersed with red, superimposed itself over other strangers I passed on the street. For the first time in my 34 years living in Taipei, I started paying attention to their faces.

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Everyone develops their own little rituals and habits over time. I always jingle my keys in my pockets before taking them out to unlock the door at night, hoping the sound would wake me up enough to shower properly instead of just collapsing onto the couch. Each day, I naturally wake two hours before necessary to get ready and arrive at work on time (because soon, my neighbors’ cat will start yowling to be let onto the balcony, and that family next door always leaves their clothes hanging outside, rain or shine — which is rather counterproductive). When work is slow, I doodle fish on a sticky note stack: pointed elliptical bodies and triangle tails, smoothly formed by fluid strokes of an office ballpoint pen. The process becomes more a matter of muscle memory, and then they start looking like scrawled infinities instead. 

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One habit I never developed was smoking. I only ever smoked once in my life, during my third and last year of high school on a dumb dare, in the alleyway behind a family restaurant. It was a thoroughly unpleasant experience; I suffocated on the smoke filling my lungs and was laughed at when I choked it all back up, with tears welling in my eyes. My voice had been raspy after the subsequent coughing fit, and it didn’t help that the commotion made the restaurant staff chase us away. Yet, now, I started buying a single packet of cigarettes every time I passed a convenience store, a different brand each time, directly after encountering someone smoking on the sidewalks. This happened as often as one could expect in a city so oversaturated with 7-11s and FamilyMarts. I could not explain to myself why I started this habit at first, just that I would be reminded of her whenever I saw a smoker, and suddenly I was striding into a store and buying a pack. Later, I realized holding a tangible reminder of her between my fingers made me feel that a metaphysical millimeter in the distance between us had been crossed, and I would be left quietly giddy for hours. I never actually smoked any of the cigarettes except for a single one from the very first packet I bought, and it was only a reconciliation with the fact that I don’t, can’t, enjoy them. But just that temporary, illusory ecstasy was enough for me.

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Still, this meant I was spending money every week to amass a collection of cigarette packs I didn’t even smoke, only opened up to hold. It wasn’t a financially sound habit, and the pile they formed in my room became annoying. I also wasn’t keen on being surrounded by so much imagery of rotted teeth and tongues; the mandated packaging never previously disturbed me because I wasn’t using them myself, but one could only look at blackened flesh for so long. I didn’t want to picture those decaying lungs in her body, much less anyone’s. I started using my office sticky notes to cover the front of each box, and when I ran out, I started doodling on my desk calendar instead.

From then on, I formed a new habit: carrying two or three cigarette packs in my briefcase each day, so I could give one to any random stranger smoking on my daily commutes, or to colleagues when I passed the outdoor smoking corner at my office. Throwing them away would have been a waste. I’ve been heartily greeted and thanked by more people in the streets of my neighborhood and the halls of my office building than ever before. Sometimes they even receive a nod and a wave back.

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Days – each one the length of an infinity, neatly fitted into calendar grids – flew by.

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My calendar flipped four fish-filled pages before I met her again. In the time between our first and second meetings, I thought about her on and off like a broken switch — in the mornings while brushing my teeth between sleep and wakefulness; during lunch breaks between sips of over-sugared cappuccinos; in the midst of falling asleep on my couch, between subtitled cable reruns of Mission Impossible 2 and Crazy Rich Asians. Always with my thoughts of her came a transient haze of both unease and comfort, guilt at being so attached to a stranger whose name I didn’t even know, yet a reassurance that I could still feel moved by beauty, that I hadn’t been dulled by time and work after all. I wanted to be stirred up even more, until all that remained in my chest cavity was mush, red bean sweet — something constant, old, yet new to me.

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That second meeting happened coincidentally during an after-work gathering in a different bar. I saw her sitting at the counter, back straight as she held a checklist too close to her face, running her squinting gaze all over the page, top to bottom, the same way she had assessed me. I knew she wouldn’t recognize me, and I couldn’t pull away immediately from the rest of my team, who were all preparing to venture onward for more alcohol, yet the urge to manufacture a way for us to keep meeting through some argument of sophistry fought its way up my throat. I thought about mentioning I was a regular at this bar before realizing that would be a lie, and I didn’t want to lie, at least not to her. Talk to her, some long-repressed corner of my mind told me, just say something and make it last, and to that, I responded, Ugh, you fool.

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I had been readying myself to reach a hand out to her shoulder when the bartender cleared his throat, and when she looked over, he nodded to the staff doorway where the uniformed manager stood with his arms crossed. She got up and walked behind the bar counter, and it was then that I realized she was an employee here, so I wouldn’t need to come up with some silly excuse to see her again. My relief at that didn’t stop me from noticing the previous bartender raising his brow at me before ultimately clocking out without fuss. I suppose the professionalism demanded between coworkers extended beyond just office spaces; even bartenders can only care so much after hours, despite their general image of enthusiasm verging on nosiness.

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That night, watching her work and interacting with customers for four hours, I finally realized the core of my attraction to her — an illusion I’d built in my mind of what she would be like, based on just our first, momentary meeting. She shattered and pieced together my expectations and perception of her throughout the night. I had imagined her cold gaze applied to everybody, including the customers, yet her eyes would curl into crescent moons when she smiled big and bright, dimples amplified in the ambient lighting as she conversed with anyone. I had thought she would huff quiet little laughs hidden under her breath, all distant elegance, but she threw her head back and resounded with the music. I had believed her silent regard of me outside that KTV bar was something special only the two of us shared, a belief I knew was irrational because of our status as unrelated strangers, even as she passed it to every customer exiting the entrance, even adding a smile and a wave and occasionally, a twinkling “Come back again!”

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I wondered how much of that behavior was genuine. Thinking back to the indifference on her face when we met, I hoped it wasn’t.

I spoke with her a few times throughout the night, in brief exchanges of singular remarks, barely conversations, and so likely interactions completely forgotten by her afterward as just those with any other passing customer. I wanted, though, to evoke some peculiar emotion in her (like concern or maybe even alarm), especially as our four interactions that night consisted only of various renditions of “Can I have a refill of my drink?” and a polite “Of course, here you go,” in response. I drank five mojitos that night, the first of which my colleagues had ordered, and I couldn’t bring myself to request anything else despite preferring my drinks sweet rather than sour. My last question to her was a slurred “What’s your name?” because her employee uniform didn’t include a tag. I’m sure she had responded, but even now, I still don’t know what she said her name is.

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The next morning, I woke up at home with a pounding headache and the taste of overripe limes on my tongue. A stickiness between the gaps of my teeth reached down my throat and stirred up the urge to vomit. I’ve never been one to overindulge, so I didn’t properly stock up on hangover cures at home. With a hand pressed over my lips to stop my gagging, or maybe just to muffle its sounds, I made the mental note to buy some at the convenience store later. They’d be good preparation for the end-of-year work dinner. 

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While doubling over the toilet retching, I ran through dozens of possible names in my head. The plastic seat stuck to my elbows from sweat, and saliva continued dripping from my mouth even after I emptied my stomach, only acid and bile remaining. Everything I had left was simply draining out of me: hope, energy, and the will to face her again – all down the toilet. At the very least, I wanted to keep my silent affection. My throat ached, and I itched to say her name and soothe it. But in the end, not a single one seemed familiar, and I could only decide we weren’t meant to be.

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If my colleagues had noticed the drawings overtaking my desk, none of them let on. As long as I made my deadlines and attended meetings on time, all was well, whether my calendar was rendered useless or not. Perhaps my drawings roused some concern, though; I’ve noticed the new intern glancing over at my neighboring desk even when he didn’t need help. Despite my attitude being admittedly standoffish at times, I was still respected at this company. My performance quality has remained the same since I signed the contract however many years ago, which is to say only average, and the trendline will likely stay flat for the rest of my time here. I didn’t understand why I was assigned as his internship mentor, but still accepted the task as I did with any other —with a perfectly pleasant smile hiding an undertone of resignation. 

The intern reminded me of my early days at this company, when my motivation was still relatively fresh but my efforts fell through more often than not. With the realization that he was likely just looking for approval that he was doing anything right, I started nodding back to him as encouragement whenever I caught him looking over. His startled turns back to his monitor screen made me think of how I had never been as eager to work, and this, coupled with the expectation of having to guide him, made me more weary in the office than ever. 
Little attachment to this company developed during the years I worked here, excluding the salary and benefits. While I wouldn’t hesitate to jump ship if a better offer came along, social etiquette demanded some degree of loyalty to my employers – I extended this obligated grace in the form of emotional distance.

The pristine marble floors and glass walls of my office building remained unburdened by my undeserving longings. My thoughts only wandered to her during intermittent breaks, like lulls in conversation at the water cooler, or while waiting for the elevators in the lobby. Somehow, I was always able to leave her behind when focused on work: the strokes of her short lashes would be replaced with structured grids of a spreadsheet, and the red streaks in her hair by my pen’s jagged marks whenever I had to check the intern’s reports. Despite my efforts to separate my feelings from my work, my colleagues seemed determined to hinder me – whenever I accepted an offer to drink together with them, incessant questioning would become both the appetizer and main course. Not dessert, though; by then, we were probably all drunk and tired enough to just shut up and keep drinking.

The first time the intern was invited to join us, he spent the majority of the night high-strung and straight-backed, laughing at the occasional ribbing from our coworkers; that was the only acceptable response he could give as the youngest recruit. Because I went through much the same and knew the team was well-meaning enough, I didn’t try hard to defend him. If not for his nervous squirming next to me throughout the dinner, I would have thought our mutual silence was companionable. Our colleagues praised me as a mature and responsible mentor, but I never understood exactly why they thought so, given the intern’s persistent skittishness – I obviously wasn’t doing an amazing job if he still felt uncomfortable with us, or at least me. I only ever responded to their attempts at teasing with a lilting ganbei! and another raise and clink of my glass, but they still managed to affect me. I wondered, with no concern as much as plain curiosity, what the intern truly thought of me. 

It was the first time in my life I’ve been directly in charge of someone else; in other words, it was as much a learning experience for me as it was for him. Only, while he learned the reins of our workplace and familiarized himself with the pace of corporate life, I learned to take on a gentler version of my usual mild and bland smile – the one I perfected as a quintessential business smile. Over the weeks of his internship and my forced mentorship, his jumpy anxiety never abated, but his work was going well otherwise. It wasn’t a total loss for me; I believed that, with this month-long show of leadership and seniority, I could receive a promotion, and thus a raise, sooner rather than later.

He surpassed my expectations when, during the fourth and final time we all went out after work together, he spoke up with a single question: “Are you seeing anyone?” I thought it was directed at someone else and kept sipping from my glass until I realized everybody was still loudly talking over each other. When I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, he was looking down at his lap, fidgeting with his hands, and the image was amusing enough that I decided to keep quiet for longer. I had both surprised and disappointed myself when, upon hearing that question, the first person that jumped to mind was her anyway – I could pretend to be ruminating over his question when in fact, I was interrogating myself, ashamed.

After our last meeting at the bar where she worked, I told myself we weren’t fated to be. Before that night, I can’t say I ever believed in fate or destiny, because I never thought about either in the first place. In the end, it was probably the thought that I must have made such a humiliating spectacle that kept me from going back. Despite all the practice I had hiding behind a poker face at work, even I didn’t have a face thick enough to just forget such embarrassment. I loathed the idea of entering that bar again and for her to finally recognize and acknowledge me, but only as the customer who got drunk off five mojitos and needed help getting home (I still don’t know how I got back to my apartment that day – most of my colleagues must have already left at that point, and no notes or texts greeted me the next morning).

Nonetheless, as more time passed and the end-of-year busyness encroached on my workplace, I felt a lessening need to see her. My memories were enough. I never dreamed of her because I never dreamed, and figured that, at least, was something to be grateful for. For the sake of my sleep, of course.

When I finally turned back to the intern, he’d already begun nursing his second bottle of beer. The lights glinting off the green glass as he turned it over in his hands flashed and blinded me, and in the afterimage, my mind’s eye traced a blurry silhouette of black and red. When the image cleared, I said, “I suppose I am.” 

He didn’t say anything in response; he only nodded and took a swig, the largest drink I had seen him take the entire night. And I didn’t bother prying about why he asked.