So it's 1 a.m. on a Saturday morning and I'm in 7-11 buying a Slurpee and a donut and as I go to pull out my wallet, the clerk slides a paper bag under the donut before I can put it down and says, "You shouldn't put that on the counter. Bums come in here."

"Ah," I say. "Thanks."

And then he says:

"I haven't been with a woman in three months."

Time slows. 7-11 clerks don't usually talk to me. The last one who did was the night guy at my old regular stop and all he did was say, "Hello, my friend!" every time I walked in. His name was "Milky," and that probably should have bothered me more than it did at the time, considering the very few ways you can get a name like "Milky."

But this guy has just told me that he hasn't been with a woman in three months. Milky never shared that sort of stuff with me.

"Oh," I offer. "OK."

He looks down shyly and says, "I'm too afraid of disease."

This guy's got the world's largest condom supply in asile three and he's afraid of disease. I think that perhaps the fact that he looks like an Arabic Bob Hoskins might have a little more to do with it, but we all have our illusions. I think I'm the King of Norway, remember.

"Ah," I say. "Yeah."

He looks up hopefully. "But I've got a date tomorrow night, so you never know."

"No," I agree. "You never do."