The bell chimed as the woman approached the counter. Her voice was like dry ice. "I want to buy a gallon of Industrial Skunk Essence and a bottle of Permanent Fluorescent Dye."
The pharmacist recoiled. "Good Lord, woman! That combination is a social death sentence! He’ll smell like a sewer and look like a neon Smurf for a month. I can’t sell you that to sabotage your husband—it’s malicious, it’s unethical, and I could lose my license for aiding a public nuisance. Absolutely not!"
Without a word, the lady reached into her purse and slid a photograph across the glass counter.
The pharmacist’s eyes scanned the photo. He saw his own wife, entangled with the lady’s husband in a very "private" moment.
The air in the pharmacy turned cold. The pharmacist’s face went from righteous indignation to a pale, sharp clarity. He slowly reached for the photograph, tucked it into his pocket, and reached under the counter for his heavy-duty packaging tape.
"Well now," he whispered, his voice dripping with sudden professionalism. "That’s different. You didn't tell me you had a prescription."
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