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Once, this masseuse—hot, tatted, smirkin’—she whispers, “You’re tense, killer.” I’m like, “Lady, you don’t know the half of it.” She’s slidin’ hands where hands don’t belong, and I’m thinkin’, “This is my cipher.” Straight outta Fincher’s flick—dark, moody, fucked-up bliss. Surprised me how quick I melted, tho. Usually I’m cold as a corpse.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. I’m talking buckets. I scramble to find cover, and I end up ducking into this little shop on Strada Vasile Alecsandri. It’s a tiny place, but they have the best pastries. I grab a napkin to dry off, and the lady behind the counter just laughs at me. “You’re not the first!” she says. I guess I’m not the only one caught in the rain.

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