“Don’t touch me. Your hands are dirty,” she said, pointing her finger at me.

“But you can touch me?” I asked and chuckled, referring to the last time we were in the comfort room and she held my wrist.

“You were in the comfort room at that time. So, I knew you had just washed your hands.”

“I always use alcohol.” I wanted to massage my temples from the stress she was giving me just by having a conversation with her, but I didn’t want her to misunderstand.

It wasn’t that ...