Gas Station Story

She was fond of a saying her father once used on her as a teenager, if only for the irony: "Only two types of people are out after midnight; cops and hookers. So until you have a badge, your ass will be in this house by 11:59." It was currently 12:17, but she needed cigarettes and the gas station was a block away.

The station was deserted as usual, with one catatonic clerk gawping at a display of energy drinks kept behind a locked plastic case on the counter. He looked up at her only after she cleared her throat.

"Pack 'a Newport 100's in a box, please."

The clerk wordlessly went about the task of tracking down the cigarettes, which were incidentally right in front of his face, when the bell indicating the door was open dinged. She felt a presence behind her.

"Well hey there," a male voice husked, accompanied by a whiff of bottom shelf whiskey. "What brings the lady out at this hour?"

"Just buying cigarettes," she answered curtly, making only brief eye contact to assert herself.

"Well purdy ladies really shouldn't be out 'n about by themselves this time of night by themselves." An ominous sounding belch, then, "Where's your husband?"

At this she turned to look at him. He looked the part of his voice; rough and dirty and most definitely in no shape to be walking the streets this late himself. She then looked down at her own clothing; stained sweatpants and her baggy faded Colts t-shirt. She should have known she'd be hit on this evening.

 She smirked mischievously. "Buried in my backyard."

The man seemed unperturbed at this obvious bit of sarcasm. "Oh, no shit? Well how about a boyfriend then?"

"He's buried next to my husband."

"Huh." He had the glassy thousand-yard stare of someone who should have called it quits before he even started. "So you got no one then? Why's that?"

She looked him square in his red eyes.

"Because I'm tired of fucking digging." She paid for her cigarettes and shouldered past him on her way out the door.