I didn't have my license with me, and Mitch and I were in line at Rosauers with some groceries and an impulse bottle of wine. Mitch placed the items on the moveable-sidewalk-for-groceries and stood in front of me to pay. But I could tell upon approaching that the checker was going to be a douzie. She looked about sixty, and behind her glasses were eyes that meant business, that didn't take any shit from the slightly off-color crowd frequenting her store.
"Can I see both of your licenses?"
This was followed by the "Oh darn, left it at home" conversation that makes me feel like I'm a lying underage delinquent.
Mitch produced his. He asked our checker if she trusted me, and to my surprise she rang up the wine and bagged our things.
"I'm 23," I said. Being helpful. Demonstrating the considerable number of years I've been drinking legally.
"23, huh? If I could be 23 again... You know, I wouldn't. 33, yes. But not 23."
And any number of events, mere moments, can happen that cause lancing pain for years. There's no guarantee for future happiness, but I'm trusting my grocer. I think life's going to get better for us over the next ten years.