when men crave a girl dinner

a short story

Mar 29, 2025

I once knew a man so strong and powerful, he could summon productivity with the twitch of his eyebrows. He carried the wisdom of all men before him and the quiet grace of short kings who ate for three. He was a green flag, championing the productive ways of his immigrant parents and consistenly leveling-up with the help of his therapist.

He was whole, complete, a holistic puzzle of a man who knew precisely what life demanded. He chased new adventures, relentlessly curious and confident in his masculinity: painted toes, nose piercing and all. A provider of love, care, affection, and laughter - he was the kind of man who inspired reverence, who turned routine into an art, who stood resiliently firm against the tides of life's chaos. His mere presence made those around him happier, stronger, better.

He had his shortcomings, his height being shortest among them, but this never held him back; he excelled on pickleball courts nonetheless. His restless and dubious mind was something to marvel at, a miracle it wasn’t behind glass casing at the MOMA. His ego floated high, carrying him far in his endeavors. Even his woman knew it so.

Yet as the new year's days passed, he fell ill. The endless charade of rejection therapy and slippery slopes of failure had caught up to him, eroding the core essence of his existence. He would return home after modest six-hour shifts, utterly defeated, crushed by a post-pandemic variant of fatigue. Sleepless nights, endless loops of anxious thoughts and meandering feelings left him hopeless. Each heavy step around the house creaked with echoes of depression.

He grew weak, mentally and physically, as the illness worsened. The usual doses of Costco cake and poker nights offered no betterment, he was lost. His woman was worried. In healthier times, he would resort to Pavlovian comforts, steady anchors that kept him afloat: the climbing gym, potluck dinners, and weekend mornings of journaling. But even his routines were long forgotten; he was hungry, starved even.

His stomach yearned for the hundred grams of protein prescribed by nutritionists, and his bones cried out for every vitamin in the alphabet. The calls of influencers and doctors alike rang in his head, insisting on fiber-packed parfait bowls and probiotic goodies. But he had lost the will for such delicacies, although once a devotee to such wholesome ways.

Something within him craved reprieve - a rebellion against the steadfast ways of his ancestors. He remembered the distant, innocent envy of the early 2000s, longing for Lunchables and the likes. He heard the ghostly whisper of his childhood, a simpler desire, untouched by adult ambitions of perfection.

He had watched his woman, time and time again, resort to such infamous remedies, unassuming charcuterie plates scattered with tasty treats. In the past, he had be quick to advise against such shameful cravings, pointing to the hoards of fresh groceries and pulling up the photo receipts of chubbier times as playful reprimand. But he could no longer hear those faint whispers of encouragement for himself.

He ignored all Pavlovian melodies as he returned to familiar looks of the pantry, scanning the shelves for only the correct answers. The fridge displayed parcels of discipline, packaged by a stronger, yet younger, version of himself. The rumbles in his stomach grew louder with impatience. He recognized that this inaction would be the death of such a livid life, prosperous, promising. He thought: “What would be the meaning of life, all this hard work, if it was lost to the battle of hunger at the doorstep of mine own kitchen?”

And so he surrendered, to simplicity.

This strong and powerful man, of great responsibility and honor, indulged in a girl dinner. The strain in his gut and the laziness in his fingers gave way to a platter that almost belittled his ego. Almost.

Humbly hunched over a wooden cutting board, with a blend of disdain and joy in his eyes, this man indulged in a slice of texas toast, seven almost-rotten strawberries, one piece of leftover baklava, a few pieces of dried mango, a handful of snyder’s pretzels, and a corepower protein shake.

He was reborn, from the acceptance of imperfection.