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A woman, two men and a St. Bernard. Christ.
It was the St. Bernard that worried him. Big dog. BIG dog. What kind of shit show… But he didn’t really want to know. He’d stopped wanting to know after the first time he’d done this. He shivered at the memory of that experience still, after all this time. The old woman’s shrunken face and peeled-back eyes. It tickled the back of his throat.
Hank was going south on I-35 (15 over 70) when he realized he was out of cigarettes. He knew cause he’d started biting his fingernails while thinking instead of smoking. A quick grab at the crumpled pack in his pocket confirmed his fear. He veered across the two right lanes and pulled off to a Texaco right by the highway. Handicap spot. Park. E-brake.
He could already see the heat lines shimmering off the concrete of the Texaco lot and on the highway which stretched out to either side of him like some earthy, blacktop fruit roll-up. A little bell rung as Hank pushed though the caged glass door. The sound made him think of sunflower seeds for some reason. He went straight to the counter, though it took the one on-duty cashier a good minute to put down her magazine and shuffle lazily over to the register. A short stout middle aged woman, dressed in a stained black Texaco shirt, and positively radiating cigarette fumes. I’ll have what your having lady, Hank thought. Her…
