She made me love her. I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to.
I wanted to walk into the supermarket and pick up some aspirin with the eggs, frozen pizza, and corn flakes on my shopping list. But I couldn't. They don't sell aspirin in the supermarket. Or in the chain of German toiletries around the corner. Over the counter drugs in France are strictly held behind the counter.
Rolling my eyes at the notion that I need to get someone's permission to treat a headache, I walked into one of the pandemic pharmacies in town, its tell-tale green fluorescent cross flashing above the door.
"Bon jour," she said, smiling. I'm still caught off guard by the initial friendliness in every store and restaurant. But I kept my attitude. I explained that I wanted some aspirin, inside my head cursing the Orwellian situation. 'Who's business is it that I drank cheap wine last night?'
And then she got me. Continuing with her smile and soothing voice she asked if I wanted a synthetic or liquid or disolveable. I didn't realize aspirin came in so many varieties. "Just a tablet," I explained. She was chic in her cotton knit sweater buttoned at the shoulder and draping across her chest like a cape, forgoing the white lab coat popular with her comrades.
She left the counter and opened a drawer on the wall of drawers behind her. Then she pulled out a box and set it in front of me. I opened it and looked at the tray of pills inside, each larger than a nickel. My eyes opened wide. My mouth followed suit. My head throbbed. How did she expect me to swallow these? "They're chewable," she said.
I felt three. Three and well cared for.
I paid, popped a pill in my mouth, and walked home.
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