We began walking through the park, slowly advancing along the paths lit only by scattered streetlights. The dim light was my ally; the shadows stretched around us like a protective cloak, dense enough that, if someone passed nearby, they wouldn't get a good look at my face or hers. It was the perfect place: quiet, almost empty, with a silence broken only by the crunch of leaves beneath our feet and the murmur of our voices.
The conversation started with generic questions, the ones I always ask on a first meeting. What do you do for work? What are your aspirations? What do you like to do in your free time? Over time, I've learned that this approach is the most effective. Starting with simple questions is like opening a door gently, without forcing it. If you rush into personal questions, the other person might feel invaded, as though a stranger had barged into their private life. And although that's precisely what I do—entering the lives of strangers—I know how to tread carefully. It's all a game of patience.
She began talking about her job. She told me she worked at a luxurious restaurant in the city, one of those places where a glass of wine costs as much as a full lunch for two elsewhere. I could picture her perfectly in that setting: moving gracefully between the tables, smiling politely at wealthy customers who undoubtedly noticed her more than they should. Her tone as she spoke suggested she wasn't unhappy with her job, but it didn't seem like her passion either. Still, I listened intently, nodding at the right moments, letting her feel that she had my full attention.
"It must be interesting working in a place like that," I commented, adding a casual yet curious tone. "You must meet a lot of important people."
She smiled but didn't answer directly, as if unsure how to respond to the observation.
Then, as expected, she turned the question back to me.
"What about you? What do you do for a living?" she asked with a mix of genuine curiosity and that tone people use when they're trying to assess someone.
I knew I couldn't tell her the truth. Admitting I'm a secretary, no matter how much the job exposes me to high-level political environments, didn't carry the weight I needed right now. So, I smiled and put on my mask, the one I've worn so many times in similar situations.
"I'm the owner of a growing business," I said, with just enough confidence to sound convincing but not overly boastful.
It's a lie I've perfected. The words are vague enough not to raise suspicion if she decided to look into it, but substantial enough to capture her interest. Most women are drawn to men with higher status or resources than themselves, and simply mentioning that I "own" something is usually enough to tip the balance in my favor.
She looked at me with mild surprise, then laughed softly.
"Really? So I'm walking with a successful businessman. I guess you must have a lot of money," she teased, leaning slightly toward me.
Before I could respond, I felt her hand naturally slide onto my arm, holding it as we walked. It was a subtle but significant gesture. I could sense the comfort she was beginning to feel around me, the trust I was slowly building. It's fascinating to watch people open up, to see how a well-told lie can influence their emotions and behavior.
"Let's just say I can't complain," I replied, smiling as I felt the weight of her hand on my arm. Physical contact is always a good sign that the plan is progressing as it should.
She laughed again, this time more relaxed. Her laugh was light, almost musical, and for a moment, I caught myself thinking about how easy it would be to get lost in the mask I was wearing. It's a dangerous game, one I've learned to master over the years. Every gesture, every word, is part of a carefully calculated choreography.
The park seemed to grow even more intimate as we walked. The air carried a faint scent of damp earth and dry leaves, a reminder that autumn was in full swing. The streetlights cast soft shadows that mingled with the moonlight, creating a scene almost romantic in its simplicity. It was ironic, in a way, how everything seemed designed to reinforce the illusion of normalcy.
As we continued walking, I noticed she was completely immersed in the conversation, now talking about how her job at the restaurant had allowed her to visit places she otherwise wouldn't have. I let her speak, occasionally asking casual questions to keep her talking. It was all part of the process: earning her trust, making her feel comfortable, encouraging her to let her guard down.
My mind, however, was elsewhere. While she spoke, I thought about how easy it is to manipulate someone with the right tools. A bit of attention, a well-timed smile, and they're already looking at you as a confidant, someone they can trust. I felt a slight tingle in my chest, a sensation that could be mistaken for excitement. But it wasn't excitement. It was the pleasure of control, the satisfaction of knowing everything was going according to plan.
Tonight would be unforgettable—not just for her, but for me. Because although there was still a long way to go before the night reached its climax, every step we took through this park brought us closer to my true goal.
It was at that moment she stopped and turned her head toward a small hot dog stand a few meters away. The soft yellow light of the cart illuminated the area with a warm glow, and I could see her eyes fixed on the smoke rising from the grill, filling the air with the unmistakable scent of freshly cooked food. Her lips curled into a small smile as she wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing them against the evening chill.
"That smells amazing," she said in a tone that left no room for doubt. Then she added, almost as if thinking out loud, "I'm a bit cold, and something warm would be perfect right now."
It was a hint, clear enough for me to understand she wanted to go to the stand. But it was the worst idea she could have had. Not only was it in a more brightly lit area, but there were a couple of customers waiting in line. The vendor was completely exposed, watching everyone who approached. Exactly what I wanted to avoid: people. Curious eyes that might remember my face.
I tried to improvise an alternative. I took off my coat and, with a smile, offered it to her.
"If you're cold, you can wear this. It'll keep you warm."
She paused for a second, looking at the coat in surprise before shaking her head gently.
"No, don't worry," she said, appreciative but firm. "That's very gentlemanly of you, but I'll be fine."
I ran out of excuses. The plan had changed in a matter of seconds, and I didn't have time to come up with something better. I watched her clasp her hands together, looking at me with that mix of hope and expectation. Damn it. I had no choice.
"Well, if you want, we can head over there," I said finally, trying to maintain my composure as my thoughts raced.
She didn't wait for me to say anything else. She gently but firmly took my arm, almost as if afraid I might change my mind, and began walking toward the stand.
"Come on! If you won't go, I'll take you myself," she joked, laughing as she pulled me toward the light.
Inside, I cursed every step we took toward that damned cart. My thoughts raced, looking for solutions. If they see us together, what will they think when they see the news? They might remember my face. Give an exact description to the police. My face is the last thing I want anyone to remember tonight. This can't happen. I need to figure something out. Fast.
Just before we reached the stand, an idea struck me. Quickly and casually, I pulled up the hood of my jacket and wrapped a scarf around my neck. My face was now partially covered, enough for the shadows to do the rest. It might seem ridiculous, but in this moment, it was all I had. Ironic, isn't it? Using something like a mask to protect myself on a date.
We reached the stand, and the vendor greeted us with a friendly smile.
"Good evening!" he said, giving me a curious glance before adding, with a light but inquisitive tone, "Looks like you're feeling the cold, huh?"
The joke annoyed me more than it should have, but I didn't show it. I nodded without meeting his gaze, keeping my response brief and forgettable.
"Yeah, it's a bit chilly tonight."
The girl looked at me, amused, and laughed lightly.
"Oh, it's not that bad," she said, giving me a gentle nudge. "But I guess not everyone is used to the cold."
Fortunately, her lighthearted tone diverted the vendor's attention. She pointed to one of the menus taped to the cart, showing illustrations of the different hot dogs they offered.
"I think I'll have that one," she said, gesturing with her finger and giving me a radiant smile.
"Perfect," I replied, and quickly turned to the vendor. "One of those, please, and another for me."
Inviting her was the best way to stay in control of the situation. If she sensed any tension from me or doubted my intentions, the whole plan could fall apart. That's why I maintained the façade of an attentive gentleman, not letting my internal frustration show.
The vendor moved quickly, preparing the hot dogs while we engaged in superficial small talk. She seemed completely at ease, smiling and occasionally laughing as she told the vendor something trivial about her day. I, on the other hand, barely participated, limiting myself to nodding and responding with monosyllables. My mind remained fixed on one goal: getting out of here as quickly as possible.
When he finally handed us the food, I paid with the same smile I'd been wearing all night. Thankfully, no one else seemed to pay us any attention. The vendor showed no signs of suspicion, and the other customers had already gone their way. Internally, I breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thanks for treating me," she said, taking a small bite of her hot dog and giving me a warm smile. "You didn't have to, but I really appreciate it."
"It's nothing," I replied, returning her smile as we walked away from the stand.
That was close. Too close. But in the end, no one suspected anything. I'd been lucky this time, though something told me I couldn't afford any more risks tonight.