At the check-out counter, the cashier asks for my identification. She passes it back with the usual comment you don't look like you could be that old. I blush. Laugh. Express some words that meant to say thank you.

Clean livin', she exclaims, as she packs the very large bottle of moderately priced vodka and a pack of cigarettes into the sack, along with a few other insignificant items. The moment carried me and my groceries all the way home.