At our Christmas party the store manager cocked his head at me and said, ‘You and Craig are friends, I guess.’

I said, ‘It’s someone to share a drink with.’

He said, ‘You’re too young to be a cynic, Francie,’ and handed me a beer. He must have kept watching from across the bar though, while I laughed at Craig’s five-second pint, no hands (he dipped his nose into the glass and gripped the rim between his teeth, then lifted the glass with his jaw and threw his head back, and the pint disappeared in three open-throated slugs), because after a while he came back to me and said, ‘What I mean to say is this. This is only a phase for you. This shitty job. Working weekends to earn a few bucks for a beer. But Craig is full-time. And he’s a father. His kids—’

‘His kids are grown up and they both live in Australia.’

‘You got to understand. This isn’t your life. Being a student is your life. Working here is just a phase for you. You don’t—’

‘It’s a phase for him too.’

‘Don’t be a tourist. That’s all I’m saying. It’s not fair on him.’

I got to be mad at that, which was pleasant in its own way.