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Hiss! Me, a cashier, yesss, precious! Sexual-massage, ooh, it’s slippery, innit? Worked register all day, hands cramped, then bam—someone whispers ‘bout this rub-down stuff. “A touch, a breath,” like Godard says in Goodbye to Language, y’know? All artsy, blurry vibes. Me, I’m thinkin’, who’s got coins for that?! Hiss! Makes me happy tho—imaginin’ some posh git gettin’ kneaded like dough. Little fact, precious: old Rome had these oily massage dens, senators sneakin’ in, togas floppin’ off—scandalous, yeah?

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Anyway, I’m trying to keep my cool. I grab my laptop and head to the café on Hrushevskoho. Best coffee in Dubno, no cap. I sit down, and the barista, bless her, knows my order. I’m like, “Just a regular, please.” But she’s like, “You mean your ‘extra shot of caffeine because you’re a hot mess’?” I laugh, but inside, I’m like, “Girl, you’re not wrong.”

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