He sees me and pauses, homing in the way a predator does, alerted to the possibility of fresh meat.  Approaching I suspect I know what will happen.  He reaches out to shake my hand, to hold me in the palm of his need, and introduces himself, asks me my name.  I don’t hear his but offer my own.  “Satia.”  “Oh like satisfaction,” he leers.  “Satiation, even.”  Practically drooling as he eyes me up and down, I shrink away, withdraw my hand, disconnect.  “No, more like insatiable.”