Ok, so you wanted to touch side bodies at dinner. I also sometimes choose to sit next to my date instead of across the table from them. However, this is a privilege to be enjoyed only when there is ample space separating your sweet nothings from other diners, both physically and acoustically. When you decided to squeeze on the bench together at the table next to me, I was not only made into the third wheel, but also your third arm. If I count the bruises on my ribs I could tell you how many bites of salad you took. I think I'm also allergic to that tacky blazer you/we were wearing, unless my rug rash is the result of relentless giggle friction. With a wall on my other side, there was no escape – no safe place for me to subtly scoot toward over the course of several patient minutes. As I strained to read my own date's mouth from across the table, where it belongs, all I could hear was the C-rated soft porn coming from my armpit, where you were both attached. Well I'm not sorry for silently farting on your bread basket as I shuffled out from my corner. It was a tight squeeze.