There were two lines for the pharmacy, each as straight as two lines of coke on a mirror edged by a social razor. She was in one, and I was in the other. It was a simultaneous connection, like a quick addiction, but one without any immediate fix since we were both kept in line by the prison guards of those ahead and behind us.

Doing the hard time of waiting, my thoughts wandered into a few dark alleys and dead ends of thought. What if she was getting some meds for a terminal condition? We would never have a chance to know each other, to enjoy each other. What if she were getting meds for a social disease? Man, that would be a bummer.