In the dark of her bedroom, Lisa could feel, rather than see, the red flush of mortification crash over her body, like an Atlantic roller against a November shore. It may seem odd that she noted this particular physical sensation at all, considering the competing stimuli: her own bony knees pressing into her cupcake breasts, the sour, whisky-tinged breath wafting into her face, and the hundred-and-eighty pound man pinning her down.