Bitter Brews and Sweet Surrenders After Dark

The weight of garbage bags in each hand makes my shoulders ache as I push through the back door of The Grind into the alley. Another closing shift done. Sam follows behind me, already fishing his vape from his pocket. Night air hits my face, cool after hours in the steamy coffee shop.

"Man, that rush at eight was brutal," Sam says, exhaling a cloud of sweet-smelling vapor. "That lady with the sixteen modifications to her latte? Kill me."

I grunt in response, heaving the bags into the dumpster. My mind is still stuck on this morning—Olivia leaning over the counter, that flimsy top barely containing her. The way she talks about her hookups, loud enough for everyone to hear. It's like she's daring me to call her bluff.

"You think she makes that shit up?" I ask, not realizing I've said it aloud until Sam looks at me.

"Who, the 'small nail' girl?" Sam grins. "Definitely. Nobody has that much bad sex."

I'm about to respond when the sound of a car engine cuts through the night. Headlights sweep across the adjacent parking lot—the one behind the apartment building next door. The engine cuts out, leaving us in silence again.

"Who's out this late?" Sam mutters, taking another drag.

We're standing in the shadows of the alley, barely visible in the dim light. But we have a clear view of the parking lot, illuminated by a single security light.

A car door opens. I recognize her immediately.

Olivia.

She's wearing gym clothes—tight shorts and a sweat-soaked tank top—her brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks different than she does in the mornings. Softer somehow. Less constructed.

She reaches into her car for a gym bag, fumbling with the zipper.

"Isn't that your girlfriend?" Sam whispers with a smirk.

"Shut up," I mutter, but I don't take my eyes off her.

What happens next feels like slow motion. Standing beside her car, Olivia glances around quickly—not seeing us in the shadows—then peels her damp tank top over her head.

My breath catches in my throat. Her skin gleams pale under the security light, the curves of her sports bra tight against her chest. She tosses the tank into her car and then, without hesitation, hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and slides them down her legs.

"Holy shit," Sam breathes beside me.

Olivia stands there for a moment in just her sports bra and underwear, stretching her arms above her head. Her body is leaner than I imagined, more athletic. The soft curves I've pictured are there, but there's strength in her limbs, definition in her stomach.

Sam lets out a low whistle, and I shoot him a sharp look, pressing a finger to my lips. If she hears us, this moment—whatever this is—will shatter.

She doesn't hear. Instead, she reaches into her bag and pulls out an oversized sweatshirt, slipping it over her head. It falls to mid-thigh, covering her like a dress. She gathers her things, locks her car, and heads toward the apartment building entrance.

Sam and I remain frozen in the shadows until the door closes behind her.

"Dude," Sam finally says, "you are one lucky barista."

I don't respond. I'm still staring at the spot where she stood, the image of her body burned into my retinas like I looked directly at the sun.

"We should head back in," Sam says after a moment. "Isabella's probably wondering where we went."

"Yeah," I say, but I don't move. "I'll be there in a minute."

Sam claps me on the shoulder and disappears back into the coffee shop, leaving me alone in the alley.

I've spent a year watching Olivia's carefully constructed performance every morning—the revealing clothes, the shocking stories, the aggressive flirtation. But tonight I saw something else. Something real. Something she didn't mean for anyone to see.

And now I can't unsee it.

I stare up at her apartment building, wondering which window is hers. Wondering what she's doing right now. Wondering what else she might be hiding behind that carefully constructed façade.

For the first time in years, I feel something beyond the usual rush of conquest. Something dangerous. Something obsessive.

I want to know what she looks like when no one is watching.

I slam my coffee cup down on the table, barely missing my laptop.

"Fucking James," I mutter, glancing around the half-empty café.

He's been worse than usual today. Every time I went up for a refill, he had some comment about my skirt or the bags under my eyes. "Rough night?" he'd asked with that knowing smirk. Like he knew anything about my life.

My bladder feels ready to burst after three large coffees. Gathering my things, I head toward the unisex bathroom at the back of The Grind. The afternoon crowd has thinned out; just a couple of students with headphones and an older man reading the newspaper remain.

The bathroom door squeaks as I push it open. It's small but clean, with exposed brick walls and a single sink. I lock the door behind me—or think I do, tugging at the handle to check. The lock has always been temperamental, but the door seems secure.

I set my purse on the edge of the sink and lean against the cool porcelain, exhaling heavily. Something about James today has me on edge. Maybe it's the way he looked at me—different somehow, like he could see through my clothes. Through me.

The thought sends an unwelcome pulse between my legs.

"Get it together, Olivia," I whisper to my reflection.

But I can't stop thinking about it. About him. The way his forearms flex when he works the espresso machine. The curl of his lip when he smirks. What his hands would feel like on my skin.

Before I can stop myself, my hand slides down the front of my skirt. I'm already wet—have been since our last exchange, when he leaned across the counter and whispered, "You're all talk, aren't you?"

I slip my fingers beneath my underwear, finding my clit swollen and sensitive. My breath hitches as I begin to circle it slowly.

"Fuck," I whisper, closing my eyes.

In my mind, rough hands grip my hips. Not some faceless stranger from a bar. James. His voice in my ear, telling me what a slut I am. How wet my pussy is. How badly I need to be fucked.

I imagine him bending me over this very sink, hiking up my skirt, pulling my panties aside. My fingers move faster, pressure building as I picture him pushing into me, filling me completely.

In my fantasy, he's not gentle. He grips my hair, pulls my head back, makes me look at us in the mirror as he pounds into me. But his eyes—his eyes are tender, seeing me, knowing me, even as he uses my body.

"Please," I whisper to my phantom lover, fingers now slick with my arousal. "Please, James."

I'm close, so close, my free hand gripping the edge of the sink to steady myself. In my mind, his pace grows frantic, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside me. He reaches around, his fingers replacing mine on my clit, rubbing me just right as he claims me, fills me—

The door swings open.

My eyes fly open in horror.

Isabella, James's petite coworker, stands frozen in the doorway, cleaning spray in one hand, rag in the other. Her eyes are wide, her mouth forming a perfect O. For one eternal second, we stare at each other—me with my hand still down my skirt, her clutching her cleaning supplies like a shield.

"Oh my god!" she squeaks. "I'm so, so sorry!"

The door slams shut.

My hand jerks away from my body like I've been burned. Hot shame floods my cheeks, my chest, my entire body. I stand perfectly still, listening to Isabella's footsteps rush away.

"Oh my god," I whisper, the humiliation so acute it's nauseating.

I want to crawl into the floor and die. Or better yet, teleport home and never show my face here again. Never face Isabella. Never face James.

James.

The fantasy that moments ago had me on the edge of orgasm now makes me cringe. What was I thinking? Masturbating in a public bathroom? Fantasizing about the barista who takes pleasure in mocking me?

My hands shake as I turn on the faucet, splashing cold water on my burning face. I scrub my hands with soap, as if I could wash away the memory along with my arousal.

I look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright with unshed tears of humiliation. My carefully applied lipstick is smudged from biting my lip.

I fix my makeup methodically, rebuilding my armor. By the time I reapply my lipstick, my face has settled into a mask of indifference. Fuck Isabella. Fuck James. Fuck this place. They can all go to hell.

I straighten my skirt, toss my hair over my shoulder, and unlock the bathroom door properly. As I stride through the café, I spot Isabella whispering urgently to Sam behind the counter. They both fall silent when they see me.

I hold my head high, my expression defiant as I walk past them without a word. Let them talk. Let them laugh. I don't care.

But as the door to The Grind swings shut behind me, I know that's a lie.

I slam the door to my apartment behind me, leaning against it as if I could keep the day's humiliation at bay. The lock clicks into place, and finally, I exhale.

I kick off my heels, hearing them clatter across the hardwood floor. One of them bounces off the coffee table. I don't care.

My purse joins them, abandoned on the floor as I make a beeline for the bottle of wine in my kitchen. I don't bother with a glass. I take a long swig directly from the bottle, welcoming the burn as it slides down my throat.

The apartment is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. No roommate to face. No one to ask about my day. It's usually a relief. Tonight, the silence presses in like a physical weight.

I carry the bottle with me to the bathroom. The overhead light flickers twice before steadying, casting harsh shadows across my face as I stare into the mirror.

"Pathetic," I whisper to my reflection.

My makeup is still perfect – I'd made sure of that before leaving The Grind. But beneath the carefully applied foundation and mascara, I look... hollow. Tired. My blue eyes, which men are always complimenting, seem dull. My pouty lips, which I play up with bright lipstick, are pressed into a thin line.

I take another pull from the wine bottle.

The image of Isabella's shocked face flashes through my mind. The cleaning spray clutched in her hands. The absolute mortification of being caught like that – touching myself in a public bathroom, fantasizing about James of all people.

"Fuck," I mutter, setting the bottle down on the counter with more force than necessary.

I peel off my clothes, dropping them in a heap on the floor. Naked, I turn sideways, examining my body in the mirror. My skin is smooth, my breasts firm. My legs are long and slender. This body has been touched by more men than I care to count. This body gets me what I want – attention, validation, the momentary illusion of connection.

So why do I feel so goddamn empty?

I press my palms flat against the cool porcelain of the sink, leaning forward until my forehead touches the mirror.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I ask my reflection.

I think about last weekend. The guy from the bar – what was his name? Mike? Mark? – taking me home. The mindless sex. The way I'd talked about it loudly at the coffee shop the next morning, watching James's expression for... what? Jealousy? Disgust? Some reaction that would prove he sees me as more than just the morning coffee slut?

God, I'm transparent.

I straighten up, running my hands through my hair. The truth settles over me like a cold blanket: it's all an act. The provocative clothes. The crude stories. The parade of meaningless hookups. I've built this persona brick by brick, and now I'm trapped inside it.

The worst part is, I hate it. I hate the way men look at me – like I'm just a collection of body parts for their pleasure. I hate the emptiness after they leave. I hate waking up alone, smelling like a stranger's cologne.

But the alternative terrifies me more. Letting someone in. Being vulnerable. Risking the rejection that would confirm what I've always suspected – that I'm unlovable at my core.

My fingernails dig into my palms. A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it down. No. No crying. Crying is for weak little girls who believe in fairy tales.

I splash cold water on my face, washing away any trace of threatening tears. When I look up again, my expression has hardened. My jaw is set. My eyes are cold.

This is what works. This is what keeps me safe. The incident with Isabella today – that's what happens when you let your guard down. You end up exposed. Humiliated.

No more fantasies about James. No more secret longing for something deeper. I need to remember what I am – what I've made myself into. The slut who talks big. The girl no one can hurt because she doesn't give a fuck.

I reach for my robe, wrapping it tightly around my body like armor. Tomorrow, I'll wear my shortest skirt. I'll find some guy at a bar. I'll fuck him and forget him, and I'll tell everyone at The Grind all about it, especially James. I'll make sure he knows exactly what kind of woman I am.

The kind who doesn't need anything from anyone. The kind who takes what she wants and gives nothing back. The kind who never, ever gets hurt.

I turn off the bathroom light and carry the wine bottle to bed. As I slide between the cold sheets alone, I tell myself this is exactly how I want it.

This is enough.

It has to be.

Three nights later, I'm staggering down the street, the world tilting at odd angles. My date with whatever-his-name-was ended the way they always do—with me faking an orgasm in his car and then insisting on walking home alone. Now I'm drunk, my bladder is about to explode, and my apartment is still four blocks away.

The Grind's lights are on. It's past midnight, but I can see movement inside. They must be cleaning up. I bang on the door with my fist, harder than necessary.

"We're closed!" a voice calls out.

"I need to use your bathroom!" I shout back, pressing my face against the glass. "Please! Emergency!"

The door swings open, and James is standing there. His expression is a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.

"Olivia," he says, his voice flat. "We're closed."

"I just need to pee," I say, already pushing past him. "I won't be long."

Inside, I see Sam wiping down tables and Isabella restocking the pastry case. They both look up, surprised to see me.

"Whatever," James mutters, letting the door swing shut. "Bathroom's where it's always been."

I stumble toward the hallway in the back, hearing James mutter something to the others. My head is swimming, the alcohol hitting me harder now that I'm in the warm café. I reach the bathroom door and practically fall inside, slamming it behind me.

The lock—that damn faulty lock—clicks, and I lean against the door, suddenly overcome. It's not just the alcohol. It's everything. The emptiness. The loneliness. The meaningless fuck with yet another man who saw me as nothing but a body.

I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the tile floor, my back against the door. Tears come in a hot rush, and I don't fight them. There's no one here to see.

My hand slips under my dress, between my legs. I don't even really know what I'm doing. It's just instinct, a desperate need for some kind of release—physical, emotional, I don't even know anymore. I'm sobbing and touching myself at the same time, not even caring how pathetic I must look.

I don't hear the door swing open. I don't notice anything until I feel a draft of cool air and look up through tear-blurred eyes.

They're all standing there. Sam, Isabella, and James, staring at me with wide eyes.

Time stops. My hand freezes between my legs. My heart turns to ice.

Isabella's face contorts in horror, and she turns away. Sam's mouth is hanging open, his eyes wide. And James...

James is looking at me with naked, undisguised hunger.

I can't move. Can't breathe. This is a thousand times worse than being caught in here before. This is rock bottom. I want to die.

Sam coughs awkwardly. "I, uh... we should..." He grabs Isabella's arm and pulls her away. I hear them retreating to the back room, murmuring to each other.

But James doesn't move. He steps forward, into the bathroom, and closes the door behind him.

The lock clicks.

"I've been watching you," he says, his voice low and rough. His eyes never leave mine as he speaks. "Just now. And in the alley the other night. Seeing you like this... knowing you want to be touched..." He takes a step closer, and I can see the hard outline of his erection through his jeans. "My cock is so hard I can barely think."

The raw honesty of his words hits me like a physical force. I should be mortified. I should be screaming at him to get out. Instead, I feel something shatter inside me—all my pretenses, all my defenses.

"I think about you," I whisper, the confession spilling out before I can stop it. "I imagine what you'd do to me. You have no idea how wet I am right now."

The words hang in the space between us. I can't believe what I'm saying, but I can't stop. "I touch myself and think about your mouth on me. I imagine you bending me over the counter when no one's looking. I want you to use me, make me feel something, anything."

Something dark and primal flashes in his eyes. I pull myself up from the floor, suddenly empowered by his desire, by the alcohol, by the reckless abandon of having nothing left to lose. I reach for the thin straps of my dress, slowly sliding them down my shoulders.

"So what are you going to do about it?" I challenge, my voice husky and raw. "Are you going to fuck me like a real slut? Show me how much you want me."

He doesn't hesitate. In two strides, he's right in front of me. His hands grasp the fabric of my dress and pull it down in one smooth motion, leaving me standing in just my underwear. His eyes rake over my body, taking in every detail.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then his hands are on me, rough and demanding. He spins me around and pushes me against the cold tile wall. I gasp as my bare breasts press against the chill surface. His body covers mine from behind, his breath hot on my neck. I can feel his erection pressing against my ass through his jeans.

"Is this what you want?" he growls in my ear. "To be fucked like the slut you pretend to be?"

"Yes," I breathe, arching back against him. "Please."

He turns me to face him, and his mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is brutal, all teeth and tongue and desperation. His hands roam over my body, squeezing my breasts, pinching my nipples until I cry out against his lips.

Then he's sinking to his knees in front of me. His fingers hook into my underwear and pull them down. I step out of them, completely naked now. James looks up at me, his eyes dark with desire, and then buries his face between my legs.

The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out. He's not gentle. His mouth is ravenous, licking and sucking at my pussy with an almost angry intensity. His hands grip my thighs, keeping me pinned to the wall as his tongue flicks over my clit, then plunges inside me.

"James," I gasp, my fingers tangling in his curly hair. "Oh god."

He growls against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body. His tongue is relentless, circling my clit, then dipping into my entrance, then back again. He adds a finger, then two, pumping them into me as his mouth continues its assault.

I'm moaning shamelessly now, my hips bucking against his face. I don't care if Sam and Isabella can hear. I don't care about anything except the building pressure between my legs.

Just as I'm about to come, James pulls away. I whimper at the loss, but he's already standing, unbuckling his belt. His jeans and boxers hit the floor, and his cock springs free—thick and hard, the head glistening with precum.

He lifts me easily, hands gripping under my thighs. I wrap my legs around his waist as he positions himself at my entrance. Our eyes lock, and in that moment, I see something beyond just lust in his gaze.

Then he thrusts into me, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

I cry out, my head falling back against the tile. He's big, stretching me almost to the point of pain. He holds still for a moment, letting me adjust, his breath coming in harsh pants against my neck.

"Fuck, Olivia," he groans. "You feel so good."

Then he starts to move, each thrust hard and deep. The tile wall is cold against my back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body. His hands are firm on my thighs, holding me up with a strength that makes me dizzy.

"Is this what you wanted?" he grunts, punctuating each word with a thrust. "To be fucked like this?"

"Yes," I gasp. "Harder. Please."

He obliges, his pace becoming punishing. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the small bathroom. My breasts bounce with each thrust, and he leans down to capture a nipple between his teeth, biting just hard enough to make me moan.

Despite the roughness, there's something in the way he holds me that feels... different. His eyes never leave mine, even as he pounds into me. His hands, while firm, hold me with a surprising steadiness. It's almost as if he's trying to see inside me, past all my bullshit and bravado.

I feel myself getting close again, the pressure building. James must sense it because he shifts his angle slightly, hitting a spot deep inside me that makes me see stars.

"Come for me," he commands, his voice ragged. "Let me feel you come on my cock."

His words push me over the edge. My orgasm crashes through me, more intense than anything I've ever felt. I'm crying out his name, my nails digging into his shoulders, my inner walls clenching around him.

The sensation triggers his own release. He buries his face in my neck and groans, his cock pulsing inside me as he comes. I feel the warmth of it filling me, and I realize distantly that we didn't use protection. Somehow, I can't bring myself to care.

We stay like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, our bodies still joined. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel... seen. Not just desired, but truly seen.

Eventually, he lowers me to my feet, but keeps his hands on my waist as if afraid I might collapse. Maybe I would. My legs feel like jelly, and my mind is a blur of endorphins and confusion.

"Olivia," he starts, his voice gentle in a way I've never heard before.

I can't handle it. Not the tenderness. Not the potential for something real.

"Don't," I cut him off, already reaching for my dress. "This was just... this was nothing."

His expression hardens, and he steps back, pulling up his jeans. "Right," he says, his voice cold again. "Nothing."

But as we fix our clothes in awkward silence, both of us know it's a lie.

A week passes in a blur of awkward mornings. I still come to The Grind for my coffee, but our interactions have changed. No more banter, no more lingering looks. James hands me my coffee with barely a grunt, his fingers carefully avoiding mine. But I feel his eyes burning into my back as I walk away.

I tell myself it doesn't matter. It was just sex—desperate, angry, bathroom sex. The kind of story I'd normally share loudly just to see people squirm. But I don't tell anyone about James. I can't. Something about it feels too raw, too real.

Tonight, I'm walking home late from a movie I saw alone. As I pass the side of The Grind, I notice movement in the alley. James is there, hefting a black garbage bag into the dumpster. His back muscles flex under his thin t-shirt.

Before I can think better of it, I turn down the alley.

He doesn't notice me at first. I watch him for a moment, the way he moves with that confident, aggressive grace. Then he turns and freezes when he sees me standing there.

We stare at each other. The silence stretches between us, filled with all the things we aren't saying.

"Olivia," he finally says, his voice rough.

I don't respond. Instead, I walk toward him slowly, deliberately. His eyes darken as I approach, his body tensing like he's preparing for a fight. Or something else entirely.

When I reach him, I place my hand flat against his chest. I can feel his heart pounding beneath my palm, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric. It's an invitation. A challenge.

His response is immediate and violent. He grabs my wrist and spins me around, slamming my back against the brick wall. The air rushes out of my lungs, but before I can catch my breath, his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is brutal, all teeth and tongue and suppressed rage. His body presses against mine, pinning me to the wall. I kiss him back just as fiercely, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him growl.

He pulls back, panting, his eyes wild. "Is this why you came here?" he demands. "You want me to fuck you in an alley like some cheap whore?"

"Maybe I do," I challenge, my voice husky with want.

His hand slides up my thigh, pushing under my skirt. When he reaches the edge of my underwear, he pauses, his eyes locked on mine. Then his fingers push the fabric aside and plunge inside me.

I gasp, my head falling back against the brick. He works his fingers in and out of my pussy, his thumb circling my clit with maddening precision. I'm already embarrassingly wet.

"You've been thinking about this," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Haven't you? Thinking about my fingers inside you, my cock filling you up."

"Shut up," I hiss, but my body betrays me, hips bucking against his hand.

"Say it," he demands, curling his fingers to hit that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. "Say you've been thinking about me."

"Yes," I gasp, unable to lie when he's touching me like this. "I've been thinking about you."

His smile is predatory. He adds another finger, stretching me, the heel of his hand grinding against my clit. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, but small whimpers escape anyway.

"I can feel how close you are," he murmurs, his mouth at my ear. "You're going to come on my fingers, right here in this dirty alley, where anyone could see what a slut you are for me."

His words push me closer to the edge, the filthiness of it all making my pussy clench around his fingers. But just as I'm about to come, he withdraws his hand. I make a small sound of protest that turns into a moan as I watch him suck his fingers clean, tasting me.

"I need to be inside you," he growls, already unfastening his jeans. "Turn around."

I don't move. "No," I say, surprising us both. "I want to see your face."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe even respect. Then he's hiking my skirt up around my waist, yanking my underwear down to my ankles. I step out of them, and they're left forgotten on the dirty pavement.

James lifts me easily, his hands rough on my thighs. I wrap my legs around his waist as he positions himself at my entrance. I can feel the thick head of his cock pressing against me, hot and hard. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, everything stills.

Then he thrusts into me in one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

"Fuck!" I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. He's so big, filling me completely, stretching me almost to the point of pain.

"Quiet," he warns, but his voice is ragged. "Unless you want the whole neighborhood to hear you getting fucked in an alley."

The thought sends a shameful thrill through me. He begins to move, each thrust hard and deep. The brick wall scrapes against my back through my thin shirt, adding a edge of pain to the pleasure. His cock slides in and out of me at a punishing pace, the wet sounds of our coupling obscene in the quiet night.

"You feel so good," he grunts, his face buried in my neck. "So tight and wet for me. This pussy was made for my cock."

His crude words send another surge of wetness between us. I'm moaning with every thrust now, past caring who might hear. All that matters is the feel of him inside me, the delicious friction as he pounds into me.

"I'm close," I gasp, my inner walls beginning to flutter around him. "Please, James, don't stop."

"Look at me," he commands, and I force my eyes open. His face is inches from mine, his expression intense, almost angry. "I want to see you when you come on my cock."

The raw intimacy of it is almost too much. I try to turn away, but he catches my chin with one hand, holding me in place. His hips never stop their relentless rhythm.

"Come for me, Olivia," he demands, his voice a rough whisper. "Now."

And I do, my orgasm crashing through me like a tidal wave. I cry out his name as my pussy spasms around him, squeezing his cock in rhythmic pulses. The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, radiating outward from my core to the tips of my fingers and toes.

My climax triggers his. With a guttural groan, he slams into me one final time and holds there, his cock pulsing as he floods me with his cum. I can feel the hot spurts deep inside me, marking me as his.

For a moment, we stay frozen, both panting, our bodies still joined. Then reality crashes back in. James slowly lowers me to my feet, still supporting me as my shaky legs find their balance. He pulls out of me, and I feel a trickle of his cum running down my inner thigh.

Wordlessly, he tucks himself back into his jeans and zips up. I pull down my skirt, suddenly aware of how exposed we are, how anyone could have walked by and seen us. My underwear lies forgotten on the ground. I leave it there.

The silence between us is deafening. All the passion and connection of moments ago has vanished, leaving an awkward void that neither of us seems to know how to fill. We stand there in the dark alley, not looking at each other, the gulf between us wider than ever.