You know that moment when you’re out in public somewhere, like maybe a library or a coffee shop, and you’re pointing at your own face and muttering calculations to yourself? And someone notices and asks what you’re doing? So you say, without thinking, because you’re still caught up in Fiction World, that you’re trying to figure out the correct angle to shoot someone in the face to make sure you hit the brain stem and kill them nearly instantly. Then the Noticer just looks at you like they’re regretting ever opening their mouth, and they’re not sure whether it’s more dangerous to run or to stay where they are. And you see that look and realize that you’ve inadvertently been creepy again, and you try to explain that you’re not going to shoot anyone. But that look still doesn’t go away, and now Noticer is scanning their own table for makeshift weapons. So you gesture to a notebook/laptop/napkin covered in notes and bloodstains and say that you’re a writer and you’re just working on a scene in which a character kills someone and wants to make sure they get it right. But it’s okay, because the person who gets shot in the face totally has it coming. And the shooting victim might be a bastard, but you don’t want them to suffer, and neither does the shooter. And then you ask if Noticer would mind if you pointed your gun-fingers at their face to see if you have the angle right. And then you watch them run for the door. You know that moment?
Never mind, then.