You're lying there at 11:47 PM, finally warm, finally comfortable, and your brain decides to play the greatest hits: that time in 2015 when you said "you too" after a barista said "enjoy your meal." Your body goes rigid. You're now 47% clenched. You spend the next twenty minutes constructing elaborate scenarios where that barista has somehow forgotten, or died, or never existed—basically anything except the one thing that's true, which is that she remembers and thinks about it sometimes. By midnight you've accepted that you'll never sleep again and that this is your life now: a person who wished eating pleasure to a minimum-wage employee mid-transaction.