Gas Station

As the thick glass doors spread apart, I could feel the cool air drying perspiration along my brow.

There is something so unnerving about walking into gas station markets.

Call it paranoia or one to many Lifetime movies watched, but I get this distinct feeling that anything can happen.

I search for a friendly face, a smile or nod.

Generally, there is none to be shared, perhaps one too many dishonest and cynical people for one gas station attendant to acknowledge kindness when it is present.

I pick up an aromatic tree for my car, a slim jim and a drink, the drive ahead is still quite long.

As I approach the register, hand digging through my purse for my money, I can feel their eyes on me.

“Is she stealing?”

As my chin lifts off of my chest, our eyes meet, “I’ll just have this and ten dollars of gas, please.”

Digging out a twenty from within my wallet, I watch the lump in his throat disappear into his narrow chest.

“Have a nice day, maam.”