Chinese Women, Asian Women, Online Dating & Things Chinese and Asian
Imi was born and raised in Europe, Hungary. After finishing his school years, he moved to Canada to search for a better life. He lived in Toronto for 13 years and currently resides in Vancouver. He is a romantic at heart with a strong desire to always do the right thing. He would like to give hope to the Chinese and Asian ladies with his story and send a message that love eventually finds everybody.
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The Immigrant (part 8) - My Alluring Black Widow    

By Imi
2333 Views | 8 Comments | 12/2/2015 8:49:49 AM

Sometimes life sends us just the relationship we need just when we need it. This was such a time.

Steam rose from the cups, floating slowly in the air, certainly not making my room warmer but surely making it look comfier. After I had set them down on the table, Kristy picked one of them up, drew her knees up into my oversized hoody that she had put on after we both had realized she was freezing because of the dank towel and nestled herself cozily into her chair. She looked like she was ready to watch a movie. The only thing that seemed to be missing was a bucket of popcorn–preferably with butter, (I guessed)–for her utter and complete comfort.

“So?” she asked and waited, looking like a Black Widow in my black hoody, ensnaring her prey.

“So, what?” I asked her back as the last defense of a weakened, wretched victim that knew exactly what was going to happen but still wanted to buy a few more valuable seconds before he was completely covered with silk.

“You were totally lost in the kitchen. What were you mulling over, or should I say, imagining in your head?” she asked over her steaming cup with a grin that made me sure she knew, without a doubt, I was daydreaming about her in the kitchen. “So, can you tell me what you were fantasizing about so intensely?” she asked and gave me such a cute smile that put my thoughts on a hot-spin cycle again.

Her silk started wrapping around me.

As far as I could see, there was no escape. I had to tell her, and, actually, I felt deep inside that I wanted to tell her. And that's what I did, telling her my sincerest dreams and hopes, out loud.

My thoughts were molded into words, and strangely, they gave shape to a person who sounded desperate even to my own ears. After two years of being alone in Canada, I had grown into a desolate man who craved for affection and longed for inherency. I hadn't even realized how lonesome I was until I met Kristy. In the last two years, I was like a sand-crusted desert crawler, forging his way towards a mirage of water. Work, study, try to fit in a new country. Work, study, try not to look stupid when people asked me something in the streets, and stupid I looked anyway. I fought every day, and I was exhausted. The road was long and seemed endless on some disheartened days. I needed to take a break, take a look, and find an oasis in my arid, solitary life.

Kristy was that invigorating refuge to me. My brain soaked up her essence like a sponge and created the notional oasis of eventuality. My dreams, my hopes, and plans reappeared after they had been lost for awhile among the mountains of greasy pots in the steamy kitchen. Without knowing, she reanimated my lonely desert life with colors.

“And then what?” she asked after I had stopped talking.

“And then, you shook my arms, and I re-emerged from where ever I had been.”

“But, what was the surprise?”

“Oh no. I'm not going there. That's gonna stay my secret.”

“You wanted to give me only a pair of yellow gloves and show me the room full of roses?” She insisted. “By the way, my favorite flower is carnation.”

“Oh. I'm sorry! Let me change it for you,” I said and closed my eyes for a couple of seconds. “It's done. What else do you want me to change for you?” I asked her with a grin.

“Nothing. It's your imagination, and kinda like it, but–”

Oh, no. The notorious “but” with an emphatic pause right after it, which is going to wake me up from my fairytale and completely drench me in shame, making the thunderstorm outside look like a drizzle.

“–how did you know I was self-sufficient?”

I exhaled, airily. The storm still rumbled outside. I was still dry inside. And the “but” remained an ordinary but.

“Your mother told me this week,” I replied.

“What else did my Mom tell you about me?” she asked and lowered her eyes somewhat worriedly.

Marika had told me many things about her daughter throughout that week. Things that I didn't want Kristy to know about.

Despite her well-developed feminine looks at an early age, Kristy was a shy girl in high school. Stares from the boys, and even worse, stares from mature men on the streets, made her quiet and introverted. Also, disrespectful comments on a daily basis made her feel like she was an object. She hated her body. Her school uniform–short skirt and a white blouse–didn't help her conceal her feminine qualities either. Even though she wore the same uniform that the other girls did, she stood out, and boys targeted her during breaks with small mirrors placed under their shoelaces, looking up at her skirt. Her initial indignation soon had been replaced by inertness. She couldn't do much about her worry other than she commenced to wear shorts under her skirt, and she had worn them throughout high school.

I didn't understand either why a school would require short skirts as a uniform. 14-to 18-year-old girls looked like baits on the streets or food on a plate for sick-minded, hungry predators. There were a lot of them in a big city like Toronto. There were harassments and molestations, and in a few cases harm had been done. There were complaints also, a few or possibly hundreds, perhaps thousands by upset parents, but the skirts remained as they were, and the girls just had to survive four years of vexation in high school. Kristy had only a minor incident besides the boys constant mirroring up into her skirt when she was fifteen. A young teacher, fresh out of university, made an equivocal remark after class when no one else was around. She told her mother but asked her not to do anything about it, fearing that it might be worse, attending a school that she already disliked because of the boys.

“Your mother told me that you still act like a girl sometimes,” I said, instead of the delicate matters, “especially on the weekends when you go out with your friends. But you are also a nice girl and listen to your parents most of the time, not all the time, though.”

“Well, I'm still young. I'm gonna be only twenty-two in a couple of months. I like to enjoy my life and have fun, but I also know what I want, and I'd tell you what I want,” she said and gave me a lascivious glance this time, “if you told me what my present was in your dream.”

Hold on for a second! What happened to that shy and quiet girl Marika described to me? I understand she is 6-7 years older now and had a long-term relationship once, but this is only the second time we saw each other . . . and . . . I don't know . . . Is she flirtatious because she's a woman and likes to see the desire in my eyes? Or because she's curious, like every woman, and really wants to find out what the present was? Apparently, she had grown up and knew how to handle men now.

“I've told you; it was gonna stay my secret,” I said finally to her.

“But I would tell you what I want if you told me what it was,” she said.

Somehow, I felt that it was a trap. “Yes, I know, but probably you'd say, 'I want my clothes back, and I would like to go home,' after I've told you what my surprise was.”

“No, I wouldn't do that,” she said. “How about if I guessed it right, would you tell me then?”

“Okay. Be my guest!”

“It was a puppy.”


“A cat?”


“A mouse?” she asked, gaily, and looked at the floor in my room suspiciously as we both started to laugh.

“It's not an animal nor a rodent, and definitely, it's not a bug. I'm clean. So is my room. It's something different; something meaningful.”

“I know you are clean. I didn't mean to imply that. May I ask something, though, just out of curiosity?”

“Ask away.”

“Have you had a girlfriend in Canada yet?” she asked, and there was an honest interest in her eyes.

“No, not yet,” I said, sincerely.

“Why not?”

“I think, I'm too busy. I'm a newcomer, and I need to build up a new life from scratch. I don't have a lot to offer to a girl right now, and–”

“That's nonsense!” she interrupted me, “why do you think that every girl out there is a gold digger and all they're interested in what you have? I can tell you, there are nice girls out there who'd be happy with someone like you. You may not have a lot now, you're only a dishwasher, but I don't think you want to hold that job for the rest of your life. And I think you could offer plenty because you're a nice guy, and most likely, you'll stay that way forever. Girls would appreciate a man like you.”

“People change. Money can change people. I might not be a nice guy forever if I had money,” I said, and she shook her head.

“You are different. The people who changed because of the money were already money hungry when they were poor. You are not hungry. You've got only a healthy appetite for money.”

I wondered as I listened to her, how a girl can rave about her ex-boyfriend in one minute,–and not realize I wasn't interested–and in the other, talk like a knowledgeable, old soul? She was like an exotic, blossoming flower, displaying her beauty more and more to the morning sun and growing from that body-hating and self-examining girl to a self-confident young woman, just like the one that existed in my imagination.

There was a silent admiration in my eyes when she stopped talking. She looked at me and held my gaze. The first time when I saw her on the bus, she was only a beautifully covered book, but now, after I had realized that it had wonderfully written content as well, it aroused my curiosity, and I wanted not only to read but learn every single line that it contained.

She shifted her eyes shyly from mine to the empty cups on the table after a few seconds of staring each other and said, “I should wash these and get going, it's almost 5 o'clock.”

“You don't have to do that. I am the dishwasher not you,” I said, and we both stood up, grabbing the cups from the table at the same time, our fingers timidly acquainting with each other. She looked up at me briefly then lowered her eyes, and I asked her, “Do you know one?”

“One what?”

"A nice girl who wouldn't mind dating with a dishwasher.”

“Yes,” she said after she had raised her head back up and looked at me squarely. “You've already met her.”

We stood only a few inches away from each other. My fingers were slightly coated with hers as we held the cups in our hands, ready to be washed if one of us could have found the strength to move away from the other.

Inspecting my hazy eyes, my beautiful Black Widow waited for her poison to take effect.

I put the cups back down on the table and moved closer. As I did, my hungry fingers couldn't wait any longer. Greedily but gently, they started indulging the sleek skin on her face. She tilted her head, just a little, closed her eyes, and fed my irrepressible craving. A shiver shook her as my fingers wandered behind her ear, on her neck. With her eyes still closed, she gave me a little smile, I lowered my head to take it from her with a kiss, but before my lips touched hers, I paused.

More than two years had been gone since I arrived in Canada. Two years without a woman, without having the feeling that I was a man. I wanted to see her begging eyes before I kissed her. I wanted to feel that she wanted my kiss, and I was the hunter and she was the prey.

She opened them slowly. Slightly trembling in my arms, she looked into my eyes and made me a man again.

I had a short, three-month relationship with Kristy. Unfortunately for me, her ex-boyfriend, suddenly, returned from Columbia. My three-month-old relationship was still in pampers and couldn't compete with a three-year-old bambino. They had just too much history together. The guy sent her a big bouquet of flower one day, and it made the room full of flowers and Kristy vanish from my fairytale. I never saw her again. My calls were unanswered. Marika told me, Kristy was terrible in breaking up with guys.

Regardless of how lonely and hurt I felt after she had disappeared from my life, I actually was grateful for meeting her.

I had received my permanent residency before I met Kristy in an official letter that said: Permanent Resident of Canada. However, those words sounded dry and somewhat empty to me. I didn't feel exactly what it said. I didn't feel that I belonged to Canada. Nothing had changed. I still worked in the restaurant; I did my daily drudgery, and I was still the same guy who barely understood what people spoke around him.

It was Kristy's welcoming arms that put feelings into those words, and I felt that I belonged somewhere. She was the one who taught me, even though only for a short period, how to accept a new life with its people and learn a new language so I would feel more at home. She was my invaluable prize that I had won at the right time when I needed it the most. Winning $100,000 could have been very helpful at the beginning of my new life. However, the feeling of being accepted by my new country, and more importantly, the feeling of inherency, these were the things that I couldn't put a price tag on.

Most likely, she's never going to read this, but never say never, they say. Therefore, I'd like to finish my story with this: Kristy, congratulations to your beautiful family! I'll be always grateful to you, thank you!

Copyright owned jointly by Author and CyberCupid Co., Ltd. Breach of copyright will be prosecuted.
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#2015-12-02 08:45:53 by JohnAbbot @JohnAbbot

Hey Imi, great article. It is interesting how sometimes life delivers us up, on a silver platter, just the person we need in our lives at just the right time. I'm not talking about the love of our life, I'm talking about Kristy, or someone like her, who comes into our life, brightens it when it is dark, and then is on their way.

It has happened to me a few times over the years, and like you, when it ended and to this day, regardless of why it ended or who ended it, I feel nothing but gratitude for the time they gave me.

It sounds like, for you, Kristy brought you out of a quiet despair, one that you didn't even appreciate you had entered, and allowed you to return to hope and belief in the future. And belief in yourself.

She sounds like an amazing woman who gave you a memorable moment in your life. Good for her and good for you. Without her you may have become someone who could not ever hope to find their true love, someone who did not take joy in writing, someone who sunk into being a dishwasher for life and lost his dreams and his ambition. As a reader it's pretty hard for me not to like and admire a woman like that.

Thanks for giving us Kristy! (clap)

#2015-12-02 09:38:02 by Imi5922 @Imi5922

Thank you, John, for your comments.

Yes, Kristy was a very nice episode in my life. She was a woman who had given me more in three months than others did in years.

Years later, I went back to the restaurant, just to visit, and met with her mother. She told me that Kristy had mentioned my name a few times when she talked to her. I really hope that I, too, was able to give something to her during that short time we had been together.

#2015-12-02 12:01:03 by Barry1 @Barry1


"Kristy was that invigorating refuge to me. My brain soaked up her essence like a sponge and created the notional oasis of eventuality. My dreams, my hopes, and plans reappeared after they had been lost for awhile among the mountains of greasy pots in the steamy kitchen. Without knowing, she reanimated my lonely desert life with colors."

Another finely written article, thank you Imi.

It's hard to believe that English is your second language, as your writing is so much better than most native English speakers. I bet you can also write very beautifully in your native tongue as well.

This series of articles you've penned has captivated me not so much for the story per se, but the way you've written it. The use of the language; the similes, the idioms, alliteration and the metaphors that you've skilfully crafted together.

I think this is how I'll perceive your articles from now on. Not focusing so much on WHAT you've written, but HOW you've written it. This is in stark contrast to your first series here, where the story itself was most important.

The reason for this isn't because I'm not interested in an engrossing tale, but because I enjoy fine, descriptive writing even more so.

Well done, Imi. To use the analogy you gave us in the comments to Part 7 of this series, you've left the freezing desolation of Pluto far behind and will soon violently collide with the white hot furnace of our Sun, after having bypassed Venus, Mercury and all the other planets at the speed of light!

#2015-12-04 01:43:56 by Imi5922 @Imi5922


Thank you for your comments and kind words!

Have you ever eaten chocolate fried chicken, Barry? Yeah, I know it must be a stupid question since you are sort of a birdman that eats nuts and fish and eggs only. However, you described the exact way how people prepare this weird - even to my taste - dish. First, you dredged me with your words, just like people bestrew the chicken with cocoa powder and spices then, they let it sit in the fridge (Pluto) for twelve hours. Then you fried me in the sun just like the people fry the chicken in a deep-fryer. Now, I'm a chocolate fried chicken, Barry, and probably a burned one as well as your skills in the kitchen very questionable. Thanks for that.

Seriously, thanks for your words! The interesting thing is that I had never written anything in my native tongue other than some lyrics when I was a child, which everybody does in some point of their lives. I've tried to translate a few sentences from my writings to my friend who doesn't speak English, but I couldn't. In my language, 70% of the words contain three syllables and up. It's not unusual to find five to six-syllable words in a sentence. 80% of the English words are ranging between one and three syllables in a sentence. The structure of the sentences is also the opposite to my native tongue, which we Hungarians call Magyar, by the way. Even the prepositions in Magyar are fused together with the preceding word. For example: in the car - az autoban. Where "ban" is "in" and it sounds like the word "bun" in English. So if I said to you "autobun," you would've started thinking about some kind of mechanical pastry, hairstyle, or one's butt.

I've mentioned before in my comments that my writings are mostly for entertainment. I can't immerse into deep, philosophical debates albeit I understand them. But expressing and understanding are two different animals that everybody knows who are bilingual.
I'll never be able to express myself in English as you or John or the rest of the other bloggers do. In other words, I'm just a chocolate-covered, weird-tasting chicken that you can taste once, but you'll never try to eat again.:)

#2015-12-04 06:33:11 by meg @meg

In a complex messy of the objective world, it is not easy to pause and take a stock.

Every life detail is like a stage play, it is not easy to express with words, with the reasonable thoughts, but you did.

Thank you for your beautiful post, Imi.

#2015-12-05 00:49:21 by Imi5922 @Imi5922


Thank you for your comments!

Yes, life is not easy for any of us, but if we could bring just a bit of happiness into our daily flood of distressed lives, individually, I believe, the world would be a better place. It doesn't mean that we have to ignore our problems. It means we need to give ourselves a break and recharge with something positive before we face the negatives.

If I was able to give something positive to you with this article, I'm happy.

#2015-12-14 22:30:14 by sharonshi @sharonshi


No, you under estimate the amount of people who love chocolate-covered chicken in the world. :D

The companssion among the charaters is touching!

Thank you for the writing!

#2015-12-15 21:16:17 by Imi5922 @Imi5922


Thank you for reading my article.

It's good to see you're back. I haven't seen you on the site for a while, expressing your thoughts in the comments.

Welcome back and thanks for your comments!

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