THE MAN IN WHITE

"This is one of those stories that will sit differently with you- depending on the rules you've learned to live by."

He pulled over his car on her side, a Nissan GT-R R35, the latest marvel in town. A handsome

man, mature in age, though you couldn’t quite tell how old. He had clearly kept himself well;

that much was certain. His matching white khaki shorts and crisp white button-down shirt

complemented his style perfectly. He seemed like the type who lived a disciplined, fitness-driven

life; whichever it was, the results spoke for themselves.

His watch hinted at taste, and the car confirmed it. He carried quiet elegance and class.

“Hi, can I have your number?” he asked, handing her his phone with a tone that made refusal

difficult. He seemed in a hurry; before she could reconsider, her number was already entered.

“I would have loved to drop you off wherever you’re going, but I’m rushing to a business

meeting. I’ll talk to you later,” he added.

From the way he spoke to the quiet confidence in his demeanor, her thoughts returned to him

again and again. Naturally, he left her feeling a certain way. She yearned to see him again, to

hear that voice once more. But that night he never called, nor the next day, nor the next week.

She convinced herself it had only been a passing moment; sometimes things come with such

force and then simply fade away.

Three weeks later, he called. His voice had lingered in her mind, hauntingly familiar. But she

held her composure, and disappointment dissolved at the sound of his soothing voice.

He explained why he hadn’t called sooner, and it sounded genuine. He asked if they could meet,

and despite her pride, she couldn’t say no. There was just something about him that screamed, I

am the one for you. That evening, they had coffee. Coffee dates became lunches, dinners,

movies, picnics, and evening walks. He loved maturely—candlelit and deep. They shared

dreams, passions, and ideas, and she loved it.

This love didn’t rely on words like I love you, yet love was written in their eyes, and his actions

spoke volumes. With calm maturity, he stripped away her shyness just as effortlessly as he had

swept her off her feet. He was both a dream and a reality. She came to know him beyond the

lavish lifestyle. It was easy to fall in love with this man simply by the fact of his existence. If

there had been any doubts about compatibility, they were quickly erased, except for one lingering

thought: he was an old soul.

A twenty-five-year age difference wasn’t something she could brush off easily, but the pressure

didn’t come from her; it came from society. Until she learned to shut out the noise, she would

never be truly happy. She would never be able to love freely. And as time went on, she did learn.

She silenced the noise.

It was on this night that I first met him, the man whose story I had heard, whose presence had

always been just out of reach.

The evening unfolded gently after that introduction. We had just come from a traditional

wedding. My companion, needing company for his workmate'es wedding, had invited me along. I

needed a road trip. The ride was fine, aside from fighting our way through a red, dusty road and

half-suffocating in the process.

After the wedding, we explored the area and visited a man-made lake. On the drive back, he

suggested we drop in on an old friend of his. I didn’t think much of it until we arrived at a

simple, self-contained house, one his friend had built for himself. We received a warm welcome.

Everyone was offered a drink. I had wine, while my coffee-loving friend was handed a two-liter

thermos and a tin of coffee—his friend knew his habits. We weren’t alone. Several young people

sipped drinks to their liking. As the drinks flowed, so did talk, arguments, laughter, debates, and

games. By the time my friend finished his thermos, he was as high-spirited as the rest.

As the night deepened, the vibrant old man, nearly in his 60's, offered us a taste of his homemade

whiskey. I’ve always preferred sweet wine to anything strong, yet I couldn’t deny that his

whiskey was exceptional. As he puffed on non-tobacco cigars—a gift from a friend and the kind

you’d expect from a movie villain—he told us how he made it from natural ingredients and spent

years perfecting the blend, finally discovering his secret ingredient.

Late into the night, he showed us his treasure chest—a repurposed couch with rows of beautiful

bottles, some from the 1980s. It was impressive. From the outside, he seemed to love his life. A

proud retiree, he owned businesses, moved between homes, and lived comfortably. His wife,

twenty-five years younger, was known for her cooking, and they got along well.

He carried himself like an autocrat; the challenge was obvious. Disagreement grated on him. He

loved superiority, yet under confidence hid a guarded vulnerability—a man afraid of loneliness,

of never being enough. At some point, my friend John decided it would be the perfect time to

mention that I was a writer.

“So, you’re one of those?” the old man said.

I blinked. “One of those?”

He leaned back, smirking. “One of those analytical people, always judging.”

Instead of intrigue, I sensed unease in him upon discovering my background as a writer. It felt as

though my presence had shifted the dynamic with John, whom he considered a surrogate son.

Perhaps he feared my bond with John threatened his own. The tension reminded me of the

complexity beneath his confident exterior.

Perhaps, in the end, I was judging after all. Have you ever stepped out of a place and known,

deep down, that you’d never return?

And yet, who wouldn’t want to retire in their fifties, with a drink in their name, hosting endless

parties where your only limit was your tolerance for alcohol? Surrounded by young people to

keep you vibrant, and at the tip of it all, a beautiful wife who could cook like a chef.

It sounded like the perfect life. But sometimes, perfection is just another word for distraction.

"Sit with it for a moment- what did this story stir in you ?"