My Taste In Men Comes With Grey Hair

Untitled Episode

Chapter 2: Coffee Breaks and Confessions

The office always smelled like fresh paper, printer toner, and burnt coffee — the kind that sat too long on the warmer, growing bitter by the minute. But I didn’t mind. I showed up early, stayed late, and kept my heels just high enough to be noticed but not questioned.

Kamau never noticed anyone unless he meant to.

He walked into rooms like they owed him silence. Not because he was arrogant, but because his presence demanded respect. You felt it — the way people quieted when he passed, the way assistants fumbled to look busy, how everyone straightened in their seats like they feared he could smell laziness.

But I watched. Always watching. I memorized the sound of his footsteps — not fast, not slow, just measured. Like everything else about him.

It took me three weeks before he remembered my name.

“Lisper, right?” he asked one morning, glancing up from his screen as I dropped off reports from the analytics team.

“Yes,” I said too quickly, then coughed. “Yes, sir.”

“Drop the ‘sir.’ I’m not that old.”

I smiled. He smirked.

That was the beginning.

From then on, I was the one he called for quick summaries, the one he asked to sit in on meetings even though I had no official role. I took notes, ran errands, and made myself useful. But more than that — I made myself visible.

He never crossed a line. Not once. But the glances lingered a second longer than they should. The smiles carried more warmth than was appropriate. Once, during a staff lunch, he placed his hand briefly on my back as he leaned in to greet someone. Just a moment. But I felt it for days.

The whispers started soon after.

“She’s always around him.”

“She’s not even hired. Just an intern.”

“I heard he’s seeing someone younger…”

I pretended not to hear. Let them talk. I wasn’t trying to be liked. I wanted to be remembered.

One day, near the end of my internship, he asked if I drank coffee.

“Sometimes,” I replied, trying to act casual.

“There’s a place around the corner — quieter than the office. Want to join me during break?”

My heart nearly cracked my ribs.

“I’d like that.”

It wasn’t a date. Of course not. But we sat at a corner table, him with his black Americano, me nursing a latte I didn’t even like. He asked about school, about what I wanted to do next. I told him I wasn’t sure — that marketing seemed interesting, but people always said I had a way with words.

“You do,” he said, sipping his coffee. You listen before you speak. That’s rare.”

I blushed. “You noticed?”

He smiled at me — soft, almost sad. “I notice more than I should.”

We didn’t touch. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t cross any professional boundaries. But when we returned to the office, something between us had shifted.

And I knew — even if nothing ever happened — that I would compare every man after him to the way I felt sitting across from Kamau, latte growing cold, heart burning hot.

Chapter 3: The One Who Tried to Replace Him

After the internship ended, life moved on. At least, that’s what I told everyone.

I went back to school. Focused on exams. Applied for part-time jobs. Switched my major from Business to Communication — a decision that made my mother frown but felt right. I told myself I needed distance from Kamau, from that office, from the way I had started to see myself not as a girl, but as a woman reflected in his eyes.

But distance is a funny thing. It stretches reality, bends memory, until it feels more like a dream than something you lived.

And in that dream, I remained chosen.

So when I met Martin — a third-year law student with ambition in his smile and hands that never stopped moving — I tried. I really did.

He was charming in the way boys are when they’re just starting to understand their own power. He wore clean sneakers and had an opinion about everything. He talked about politics like he was already running for office, and kissed like he was trying to prove a point.

Everyone said we looked good together. And maybe we did.

But when he touched me, I felt nothing.

When he sent cute texts and heart emojis, I read them with a polite smile.

When he joked about how he’d “snatch me from the arms of any sugar daddy,” I laughed — but it stuck in my throat.

Kamau never sent emojis. He sent silences filled with meaning. He didn’t chase. He selected. He never had to say, “I’m a man.” He simply was.

One night, Martin invited me to his place. Said he wanted to cook for me — spaghetti and red wine. I said yes, because I was tired of saying no to everything and still ending up alone.

He played music. Lit a candle. Burned the garlic.

When he kissed me, I let him. But my eyes stayed open. My thoughts drifted. I imagined the crisp lines of Kamau’s shirt, the faint scent of his cologne, the way he said my name like it was a password.

Martin pulled away. “You’re not here,” he said.

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re kissing me, but your mind’s somewhere else. Is it another guy?”

I hesitated.

He laughed — not angry, just hurt. “It’s him, isn’t it? The guy from the internship. The one you never shut up about.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

He stood up, ran a hand through his hair. “You know what? I hope he breaks your heart. Guys like that always do.”

But that was the problem.

Kamau never even touched my heart. He owned it from the start.

Martin was trying to catch something that had already been claimed.

I left that night without looking back. No tears. No regrets. Just the cold realization that once you’ve tasted something real, you can never go back to imitation.

And I realized something else:

Maybe I wasn’t just looking for love.

Maybe I was looking for power — the kind that only older men carry, like cologne and regret.

And maybe, just maybe, I was becoming a woman who could handle it.