Spent the afternoon at a gallery opening, surrounded by pretentious whispers and cheap champagne. All I could think about was the barista who served me this morning. The way his thumb brushed mine when he handed over the cup, the faint, knowing smirk when our eyes held a second too long. I spent the rest of the day imagining him bending me over the granite counter after closing, hiking up my dress, and fucking my cunt right there amidst the grinders and spilled beans. The fantasy isn't about him—it's about the violation of something clean and public, about the stark, beautiful contrast of a raw, sweating body against all that sterile steel. Some cravings are for a specific taste. Others are just for the mess.