Went shopping for groceries. The man in the produce section was selecting melons, his hands were so careful, so deliberate. I stood there, watching his fingers press into the fruit, testing for ripeness. It made me think about touch. About the difference between a hand checking a melon and a hand sliding up a thigh, under a skirt. About the weight of a palm on a hipbone versus on a countertop. About the specific, desperate fantasy of being bent over that very same produce display, my dress pushed up, my pussy exposed and aching, while he takes me from behind, uncaring who might see. The chill of the refrigerated air on my skin, the scent of earth and citrus. The utter, terrifying freedom of being used like that in public. Then I bought the melon and came home to my empty, quiet house. The fantasy stays here, with me. It has to.