Gas Pedal

I pushed through the double doors of the dimly lit gas station and made my way through a clatter of loiterers to the cashier. I took off my sunglasses-after all, it was nighttime, and slapped my debit card on the counter.

“Forty on three, please.” I said finally making eye contact. The cashier did a double take after she slid my card towards her on the counter.

“You oaky?” she asked with genuine concern in her voice. I took her in. She is outfitted with an oversized polo shirt, two sizes too big. Her hair is red, clearly dyed. Brown roots showing. It’s haphazardly contained in a claw clip on top of her head. Her eyebrows are plucked thin, also dyed. For a brief moment, I think about her. I think about the 100 transactions she’s had today. I think of her pleasant demeanor asking about me with genuine concern against the backdrop of this bleak gas station. I think she is likely a mother.

“Um, yeah. Yes.” I said blankly, finally returning from my head. She smiles patiently.

Thank you, I think to myself. I’m impulsively tempted by a Reese’s Fastbreak, and decide against it. I breeze past the doors with the shrill of the bell, the echo somehow existing in every gas station and slam the pump into my tank. As gas whirrs into my tank, I look around. A hot wind blows through my small frame and I feel dust brace against my pale legs.

I slump back into my cozy hatchback. I bring my rearview mirror to meet my reflection. My eyes are red and puffy from crying. I break my own gaze and start the car. It roars to life, and I am thankful for the digial bars stacking once again as I drive off into the darkness of the night. On Truxtun Ave, I'm free to speed how I please. A barren lake cloaked in darkness is to my left, quiet medical buildings dotted on the right. I roll down the windows and the musk of stagnant water and mud is pungent. I have smelled this smell every year for twenty-five years. The windows dissappear into wherever car windows go to. I inhale deeply. And I scream.

As I scream, I hear the shakiness of my voice. I feel the sound escape me like a trapped teapot-- whistling, shrieking, shrilling-- praying for reprieve from the blue heat beneath. The summer heat is stifiling. As I scream I watch the dial slowly rise. 65. 75. 80. An oncoming car's headlights give me the side eye in a lane over. With his lightning approach, I briefly consider the slip of my hands. Just one gentle drift and the world goes black forever. I picture the words used at my funeral. "Troubled. Misguided. Adrift." I picture the other car's. "Victim. Inncocent. Beloved." I tighten my hands on the steering wheel.

I am in control. And I am not a monster. I reassure myself. And finally, after a final, departing scream, I allow myself to think about what happened.

He is in the passanger seat next to me. We are late to a hasty dinner reservation at the Olive Garden. After all, this is a small town.

"All I'm tyring to do is love you." His words are loaded, and I've learned by now that love is a contract I cannot get out of. I've shredded it. Buried it. Ignored it. But again, here it is crawling back. A manifestation of power and insecurity sits beside me, expectant.

"You're right, I'm sorry." I relent, trying to hide the familiarity of this exact exchange in my voice. But he doesn't care. The contract payment was fulfilled.

"Good." His assurance is nauseating. I look at his chiseled face. Every time, without fail I picture him modeled from clay. The perfect detail of his philtral column. His brown eyes that can shine from chocolate to sewage in an instant. The weight of him, and then the sting.

You've got to get out of here. This is not your life. She tells me.

I will. I promise. I tell her in return.