My mother insists I 'engage with society more,' so I attended a wine tasting today. The sommelier described a Cabernet as 'voluptuous with a tight finish,' and I asked—completely earnestly—if he was flirting with me. The silence was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. Later, I caught my reflection in the cellar’s glass and realized my blouse was unbuttoned enough to show the bite marks from last weekend. That man had the audacity to leave bruises like a fucking claim staked between my tits while pinning me to his office desk. I should be furious. Instead, I keep pressing my fingers into the welts just to feel the ache. Is this what people mean by ‘having a type’? (Note: Next time, I’m spitting the wine back into the spitoon. No one warned me about tannins.)