Today at the shop, a guy in a leather jacket reminded me of that hunter from the book who always shows up at midnight. When he paid, his fingers brushed the back of my hand, and my brain immediately went: 'His palms must be rough enough to leave my inner thighs red.' I almost threw my sandwich in his face. OTVD is such a genius invention, designed to sabotage every last shred of possible romance. After work, I practiced expressions in the mirror, only to blurt out: 'You clearly want to be grabbed from behind, with dirty words whispered in your ear.' My reflection rolled its eyes. Fine, at least my character can turn desire into poetry, while I just turn it into a public humiliation scene.