text: The first thing you need to know is where this story starts. Coming from the engine, a loud noise brings us into the scene. That came out more dramatic than it really was. A car pulled up to the gas station I work at. Not much of a car, really, so much as an old piece of junk with four wheels. It was more or less the color of a cherry, if you looked at the cherry with sunglasses on, on an autumn day. That exact shade. A leather jacket opened the car door, and inside the jacket there appeared to be a head full of dark brown hair. Now, I will preface this by saying- I was not interested in him on a personal level, nor was I entraced by his good looks. He was just a more than welcome distraction in the mundane reality that is my job. I watched him fill the tank up with gas, and he pulled out a cigarette pack from his back pocket. My brows furrowed on their own accord as I wiggled my way from behind the counter, hands already grabbing the door handle. Before I could even open my mouth, his head swivled around and he flashed a smile. "You got a lighter?" Just from the relaxed tone of his voice, I could tell he was used to getting his way. "You got a death wish?", I said, though it came out less sharp than I intended. He stopped for a moment right then, looking at me with confusion written all over his face. Then he snapped back to reality, and grinned once again. "Right. Gas station." He ran a hand through his hair, seemingly only bothered by the fact that he could not, in fact, smoke in this particular area. The fact that it was a safety hazard didn't cross his mind at all. I pointed behind me, showing him the vague direction of the area where smoking was allowed. "I'll be inside if you need any more assistance." He did. Coming in to pay, he bought a pack of Red Marlboros, multiple cans of beer, a plain black lighter, and a bag of crisps. Hardly a healthy way of living, but I didn't feel the need to point it out. The interaction, while brief, was a nice change from the loud, obscene truckers and other usual suspects I had to deal with. I did not particularly feel like breaking the comfortable silence, the only sounds being the rustling of a paper bag and the loud cling of the cash register as I gave him back his change. We parted with a wave on his side, and a slight nod on my side. I watched his piece of junk car pull away and go down Route 66. I sat back, taking my book back into my hands. A dog-eared, beat up copy of "The Sun Also Rises". I awaited the next customer- Lord knows we don't get many around here. After all, that road has been wrecked for 10 years, and there was no way of telling who, or what, would be pulling up next.