The Smile

It was the pockmarks and well-healed track marks that first caught my attention as she began ringing up my items at the cash register. I knew exactly what they meant. For a brief second, I was back in Brooklyn as a teen, witnessing the heroin epidemic.

I remember stepping over, nodding addicts who sat on the steps of our building. The constant scratching of the arms. Slurred speech that stopped in mid-sentence as their heads lowered almost to…