The liquor store clerk was polite but sad when he rang me up, convinced I am sure that the small clear bottle with the funny name and the "40% alcohol" label would start me down the road that the other folks in line had followed, that I would be back each week and then each day a little scruffier, a little seedier, my hair a little longer, wearing an army surplus jacket, my wife and children abandoned and forgotten.

But he hadn't seen what had come before, or what was to come after, any more than I do when I write my stories about all of you. He hadn't spent ten years lusting after the most damnably cute and unknowable woman who would mention at least once or twice a month how much she liked to drink this stuff and he may or may not have been as dense as me, who suddenly wondered after a decade of frustration if perhaps this wasn't just conversation, but a hint, a suggested plotline for some warped fairy tale variant in which the charming prince goes off on a quest to buy the rare bottle of foreign firewater for the princess and in so doing loosens her heart and all its many inhibitions.

He didn't see me walk whistling from the liquor store to the book store to buy a card and a fancy silver gift bag for the bottle, or from there to the market to buy a variety of chocolate bars to stuff in the bag next to the bottle and the card. He didn't see how beautiful she looked when she came down to the sidewalk at my cell phoned request, or hear her squeal of delight when she yanked the bottle out of the bag, or hear the edge of promise in her voice when she said "Maybe now we can get together," though in retrospect he might not have approved of that either.