![]() He looks like someone’s grandfather, as he fiddles with his wire-rimmed glasses and adjusts the button on his vest, right above where his heart would be. He knows as well as I do that this is nothing but a dream sequence - the moment before we wake up, before reality mugs us and flays fantasy from our skin. The man in the plaid shirt glances at us and sighs. Old cans shrug off paper labels like our fathers’ leather jackets, standing shoulder to shoulder. The low ceilings, sixteen shades of off-white, hang themselves above our heads. This gas station is governed by gridded lines, waist-high shelves, and the man in the plaid shirt taking a drag at the counter. My hair is tucked into the collar of a flannel even though it’s so hot the asphalt is stuck to the heel of my shoe, my eyes shaded by a baseball cap. When we walk in, Annie remarks that time is holding its breath. ![]() Annie and I - we scrape by on vapor and exhaust and a sweet tooth, stumbling into gas station after gas station on our way to California.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |