It’s dark when I pull into the parking lot. I’m nervous–will he have what I need? Will the price have gone up? What if I can’t get it? How will I get through tomorrow–the next day, the day after that–if I don’t? My fears are unrecognized, but I can’t help noticing the smug, disapproving look on his face as he hands me what I came for.
This isn’t a back-alley drug deal; it’s a simple transaction between me and my pharmacist. So why do I still feel like a common junkie?