It begins slowly. At first, it’s not going out every Friday night, instead, you alternate every other Friday night out and in, out and in. Then Friday nights start being smaller, less glamourous sleepovers, avoiding the booming crowd. Instead, you only hang out with 4 friends, then 3, then 2, then 1.

Then you spend Friday nights on group Facetime, on Netflix Party, where you can easily escape the constricting conversations by the click of a button and claiming “It was an accident! Oh, my network crashed!” So you can silently slip into bed with a quiet sigh, in sweet silence.

The invites stop coming soon after that, people know you won’t show so they don’t ask.

The facetime calls end soon after that, everyone is getting tired of you avoiding their calls and your “botchy WiFi.”

A shell forms around your body, every knob jiggle, every ringing of your phone makes you flinch, makes you press against the wall of your shell. You run away like a chicken, every single time.

Silence becomes your best friend, your previous organized and color-coded and pristinely clean room becomes a pig’s den, the home of a hoarding slob, dirtier than the barn house of the cows and the pigs and creepy crawly critters.

The slightest smile from a stranger makes you feel claustrophobic in even the largest rooms, your lung drowning in the awkwardness your own mind produces.

Your lungs seem to shrink, your eyes narrowing to one single objective: the exit. Every single time, without fail, you run and run and run to that exit but can never find it.

So you pull away and away and away, isolating from those prying eyes, those smiling lips, those “kind” words.

You quarantine yourself from the population lest they catch the disease you carry in your mind, lest they isolate you by force.

So you rot and decay in the grave of your own traitorous mind’s making, where not even the most valiant knight can save you from.

It was quite the crush.

The papers say he was 57, a respected member of the community, a friend to charities, especially causes for children. He had money, I know that. I sold him suits. He came in once a month, asked for me by name, always bought top labels, always took my advice, always asked me to dinner.

I am 28. That's less than half his age. But his car was nice, his watch was nice, I made sure his suits were nice. And he was nice. Nice smile, nice laugh, nice manners. Other men enjoyed their fittings a little too much, looking down my blouse while I measured their shoulders. Pigs, but that's the job, and I always made my quota. He was never that way, always the perfect gentleman.

Dinner was incredible. The meal, the service, the ambience, the conversation! I was enraptured, fully taken in by the magic of the evening.

We went back to his place. I said just a drink, then take me home, please. I woke up four hours later, the effects of the powder he had mixed into my cocktail wearing off. My head pounded. My body was bruised. My skirt was gone, my panties nowhere to be found. My mouth was dry, I could not speak.

I found the note on the nightstand. Thank you for a good time. Have to get to the office. Money for a cab. I'll call you later.

I was terrified.

He called that night. I ghosted him for two hours. He called 29 times. Then he showed up at my apartment. He wanted me. I said no. I threatened to call the police. He said I was being irrational. He said no one would believe me. I think he was right. He left, laughing. I did not sleep that night.

The next day he texted. He asked when I would be out of work. I told him I would be closing. 8:00pm. He showed up about 7:50. He wanted to talk. I locked up. We were alone. I kissed him. I told him everything was okay. I told him I wanted him. I kissed again, my tongue explored his mouth, his hands explored my body, I breathed faster. I led him to the back, where the suits are made. He said he was so glad I had changed my mind about him. I said I was, too.

We kissed more and more, I unzipped his pants and pulled them down around his ankles. He was very excited. I laid him back on the press table. I told him to watch while I removed my skirt, revealing my naked body to him. I reached up, pulling my top off. While my hands were up I pressed the button. The press began to lower, thousands of pounds of pressure used to remove even the slightest creases from fabrics. He tried to sit up, but his feet were tangled in his pants. I pushed him down, hard. The press lowered.

Like I said, it was quite the crush.