They sold me alcohol when I was drunk. There were signs on the wall claiming they wouldn’t, and they leered at me, but they took my money and gave me what I came for. They still will.

I’m better now, maybe. Oh, I miss those shelves: fine wines from Italy, Canada, Chile, New Zealand; single-malt whisky; Polish beer. All the pleasures of the world, in liquid form. You can live in it. You can die in it.

There was one girl, though. She took my money like the others, but she talked to me. A word, two, a sentence, two. Asked questions. How was my day? What’s up with my shirt? Do I always buy things in even numbers?

She didn’t help me quit. She did make me feel more human. That’s all. A friendly face, feeding the addiction and not judging, and maybe caring. That’s all. I know what was on her name tag and I know some of the things she said to me. That’s all.

I put her in a story that has no plot, and doesn’t work. But I never said this to her: thank you Samantha. I won’t forget.