Michelle, part duex
You first saw here as she tumbled out of a beat up and well patina'd Ford pickup. She left the passenger door open and bounded into the convenient store.
You got out of the car and picked up the fuel pump. That red pick up looked familiar, but it can't be. After all, you'd definitely remember her. Looking around the station your gaze lands on the truck and you stop to study it. The passenger door is closed but not shut. The windows are down and there's someone in the driver's seat, fingers strumming along with the radio.
Looking back at the building, you see her swing the door open, carrying two bottles of Mountain Dew and a Slim Jim. You lean against the car, listening to rushing hum of the gas and taking her in: white t-shirt, blue jean shorts and sneakers - their dark surface speckled with light brown smears. She could feel the look and glanced around the gas station.
Twenty four pumps, and about fifteen cars filling up. It wasn't empty and you weren't close to the door. There were even a couple cars between you, with people coming and going, three little kids yelling on the sidewalk in front of a Suburban.
But she found you. And you locked eyes for a second. She picked up her pace and jumped back into the truck. The truck rumbled back and then stopped. They were talking. Through the glare on the windshield, you could see her point at you. The truck lurched forward through the parking lot, turning up your aisle of gas pumps.
Slowing to stop, you can hear their radio go quiet. She leaned out the window: "about fifteen miles down 73, there's a big, ugly, almost-red barn. We're over the hill at the lake behind the barn. Bring beer."
She winked. The pump clicked off.
What the fuck?