I am 35 this year. Stable job, decent pay, but life feels like a repetitive Netflix series. Then there’s She. She’s 42. Not some young, xiao mei mei (young girl) with thick makeup, but she’s got that “mature woman” vibe. She’s smart, she’s sharp, and she smells like expensive Jo Malone perfume even after a 10-hour shift in our air-con room.
Only one problem: She’s married. Got husband, got two kids in primary school, got a home in Malaysia.
I know, I know. I’m a basket for even thinking about it. But when we work late together on those regional reports, the vibe is different. We are the only two left in the office. The lights are dimmed, the pantry is empty, and the silence is so loud you can hear your own heartbeat.
The “Animal Instinct” Moment
Last Friday, we went for drinks after a crazy project launch. Just the two of us because the rest of the team all “fly aeroplane” (cancelled) last minute.
We were sitting in some dim bar in Tanjong Pagar. After three pints of Kirin, the conversation shifted. No more talk about KPIs or Excel sheets. She started talking about how her marriage feels like a “business partnership” already. No spark, no passion, just talking about tuition fees and mortgage.
She looked at me—her eyes a bit blurry—and she touched my arm. Just a light touch, but I felt like I got hit by an electrical substation.
“You’re 35,” she whispered. “You’re in your prime. My husband… he doesn’t look at me the way you do.”
My brain was screaming: “ABORT MISSION! RUN! RED ALERT!”
But my body? My body was saying something else. At that moment, I didn’t care about HR policies, I didn’t care about her background, I didn’t care about “morality.” My animal instinct just took over. I wanted to just grab her right there, throw away the logic, and forget that the world exists outside that bar.
I want to give in. I want to be the “bad guy” just for one night. Every time she leans in to show me something on her phone and I feel her hair brush against my face, I have to clench my fist so hard my knuckles turn white. It’s like a hunger that no amount of Hawker Center food can satisfy.
The Reality Check
I’m 35, not 15. I know how this ends. It ends with a lawyer’s letter, a slap in the face at the office lobby, and me becoming the “Office Pariah” that everyone gossips about during lunch.
But the urge is so strong, man. Every morning I tell myself “be professional,” but every afternoon when she smiles at me over her Starbucks cup, I’m back to square one. My logic is fighting my instinct, and honestly? My instinct is winning by a landslide.
I’m standing at the edge of the cliff. One more late-night OT, one more “accidental” touch, and I’m going to fall. And the worst part? I think I want to fall.