My Same Old, Same Old
WHEN I WAS sixteen, I fell in love with a pharmacist who was almost twice my age.
Let’s rewind the VHS tape back a few years before that. I was one of those teenage girls aching for a way out of her awful life. Cliché, right?
Even though he was in his late twenties, he seemed to be a middle-aged man. His white lab coat covered the beginning of his portliness. His brown-blond hair was already thinning, so it was easy to see what he’d look like as a father within a few years. His thick-framed glasses rested haphazardly on his nose until he pushed them back up when he needed to double-check his records before handing me the flimsy prescription bag. Unlike the more popular and larger Trier’s d**g that was a block north of him on Suffolk, the Ironwood Pharmacy had only
