Betty put the boxed wine, vodka and the discount corkscrew on the liquor store counter. The clerk looked at the mismatched purchases, then the woman with the short blue hair and wrist tattoos and promptly asked for ID. The license she handed over was scrutinized at length, the magnetic strip, the hologram, the name and date of birth. “Restrictions? Corrective lenses, and… I’ve never seen this one before… ‘no FM driving?’” he held onto it, convinced it was fake.
“No driving on the nights of the full moon.” She held out her hand, waiting for the license to be returned.
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