Gas Station

The wind changes direction as a car flies past, up the hill, speeding away toward nothing. One more person in a hurry to get nowhere as fast as they can. Useless.

Tick, tick, tick. The meter on the gas pump keeps time with the quiet rush of fuel filling the tank on my car and draining my wallet.

Another gust of wind tickles my face, plays with my hair, and shoves aside the open ends of my jacket—too cold not wear one, but not cold enough to zip it shut. White glistens from the roadside, piled high by the plows. Fat with snow, the trees sit quiet and unstirring aside the black gash cutting down the mountain.

The slush beneath my feet smells of gasoline, tinted gray-brown by mud, road salt, and chewed tobacco. It’s only a few shades darker than the morning sky. Suppressed by the thick clouds, the sun hides from the world, caught in the awkward phase of morning where it’s neither early nor late.

Click. The pump shuts off. Time to get in my car and race as fast as I can to absolutely nowhere for no reason good enough to justify it.