It was all lust at first sight. You wouldn’t see such a hot, sexy body—an endowment with all the curves in the right places—and not want to risk it all. I assumed she was in her mid-thirties. As time would agree with destiny, we found ourselves sitting next to each other at the restaurant, a floor below the cinema where we had a brief encounter. Actually, nothing more than a glance.
She had plans to go watch another movie. As for me, I had enjoyed the first one, planned to grab something to eat, and head home. I didn’t know she noticed me—until she said, with a glittering smile, that I smelt very nice. That, she said, had drawn her attention to me when she walked past during our first encounter.
I told her I wasn’t wearing any expensive perfume—just something casual to carry me through the day. She giggled and said, “Hey! Young man, I was attracted to your pheromone.” I insisted I wasn’t wearing any fancy cologne—too broke to afford pheromone perfume.
She stared at me firmly with a smirk and spoke in a voice as soft as the evening breeze tickling the leaves of a tree. “You are more of a man than most men who think they can buy masculinity. Pheromones should ooze out of you naturally. The scent of a true man should be earned, not bought with cash.”
Now I understood what she was talking about—pheromone, the natural masculine scent that attracts women to a man’s strength, aura, and sexual energy. These days, it’s artificially manufactured into expensive perfume by men desperate to impress rather than develop the discipline to earn that aura naturally.
“Is she flirting with me?” I asked myself silently.
She calmly gazed at me and asked, “How old are you?” At that point, I felt a strange audacity I couldn’t explain. I replied, “Why ask? Are you falling for a guy who’s practically your age mate or slightly older?”
She blushed. “Are you flirting with me?”
I replied in a deeper tone, “Aren’t you doing the same?”
Her response didn’t come with words—just a loud, infectious laugh that made me wonder if I’d been too forward. Maybe I was overthinking, misreading a friendly gesture as a romantic one.
Then she asked, “Since you think we are age mates—or that you’re slightly older—how old do you think I am?”
I reached for my drink, hoping to display confidence, and smiled to mask my nerves. “Thirty-four or thirty-five,” I said.
This time, I felt the sky release the god of thunder. Her laughter shook the foundation of my masculinity.
“Why are you laughing so hard? Now I feel embarrassed.”
She tapped my shoulder like an auntie would and said I shouldn’t feel uncomfortable with her reaction. She hadn’t realized she looked that young.
That touch on my shoulder lingered. Then came a gentle caress on my face.
“Are you thirty-four or thirty-five?” she asked.
I struggled to swallow my saliva and replied, “Yes, I’m thirty-four.”
“Hmm! Such a young fine man,” she said.
Before I could ask her age, she read my curiosity like a book—and unleashed a detailed account of her identity. I almost felt like someone had opened my brain and downloaded everything about her in an instant.
Tanya is a 47-year-old successful and wealthy entrepreneur. In fact, she owns the building I found myself in—the cinema, the restaurant, and several other establishments I don’t even know about. A divorced woman who doesn’t look anything like what she’s been through. She never had a child. That was the reason her husband couldn’t stop getting other women pregnant—playing mental games and using her inability to conceive as an excuse for his infidelity.
It was all love between Tanya and her ex-husband at the beginning—high school sweethearts who believed in happily ever after. Tanya was madly in love with ambitious Justin, who was focused on becoming a top medical practitioner. Every time she got pregnant, abortion was the answer because he didn’t want fatherhood to distract him—and they weren’t married yet. Little did they know it would lead to future complications with childbearing.
Tanya noticed my eyes had become teary. I thought I’d found a future girlfriend or sugar mummy. Instead, I had to come to terms with being a true friend to one of the most broken—but strongest—women I’ve ever met.
Tanya told me not to pity her.
“How long have you been divorced?” I asked.
With a broken smile, she replied, “One month.”
I couldn’t hide my shock. “You haven’t healed,” I said.
“I am healing,” she responded.
She continued, “Edwin, I’m more concerned about menopause right now—more than anything else. I’ve passed the transition: the hot flashes, trouble sleeping, pain during sex, mood swings, irritability, forgetfulness—the list goes on. It made marriage hell, Edwin. I needed solitude. I was lost, didn’t know how to handle midlife crisis. Each day, I saw myself as an underachiever. I was a slave to marriage, not an empowered woman. Yes, I had businesses. Money was never a problem. But I didn’t have a life. No ‘me’ time.”
“Menopause taught me how to find myself. I found my divine masculine—not in Justin, as I thought, but in myself. This undiscovered side of me that finds happiness outside the box—yes, outside the casket of marriage and relationship.”
She took a deep breath and looked at me with piercing clarity.
“At first, when Justin became a shadow of himself, I wished I hadn’t given myself to only one man. I began to understand: today’s young girls aren’t emotionally or sexually reckless because they want to be—but because of the uncertainty of men. Women age easily. We don’t enjoy life as men do. Society condemns us for trying to be free and unapologetic. Our voices are sealed by the fear of judgment. Life becomes joyless in the name of being the perfect woman.”
“Menopause was painful. But as dark as it seemed, it gave me freedom.”
I was impressed by how she had alchemized sorrow into strength. But I was confused why she was still complaining about it if it saved her life.
So I asked, “Then why were you complaining about it?”
Tanya reached across the table and held my hand.
“I saw an opportunity to talk to someone like I never have before—about my emotional distress. That was my way of opening your ears and heart, because I saw how curious you were to know me. The last time I felt that was with Justin… when we were just high school sweethearts.”
It felt like this moment was made in heaven. I didn’t care about the age difference. Tanya is 47. I’m 34. This is what true love means—acceptance, evolving together, and growing through every shade of love.
She canceled her plans to watch the movie. She asked if it was okay to know where I lived.
As she drove off in her expensive Range Rover, all I could think about was finally kissing her… maybe even something more. With such a hottie, wouldn’t you have wild thoughts too?
Suddenly, I felt someone tapping me awake.
Who could it be?
Guess what? My son—Uriel.
2 a.m.
My four-year-old son woke me up to ask for water.
So it was only a dream?
Sadness crept in.
I was back to reality—a single dad.
But can dreams become reality?
Where will I find a woman like Tanya?
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