The silence of the gas station was pierced not by the shouts of drunks, but by the blaring of music from a car sliding into a parking spot outside the door:
I feel you creeping, I can see it from my shadow
Wanna jump up in my Lamborghini Gallardo
Maybe go to my place and just kick it like Tae Bo
And then silence again, again punctured by the open and slam of a door. Unfortunately the auto in question wasn't a Gallardo, or even a sports car of any kind. Not even a Porsche Boxster. I couldn't tell the color, other than that it was dark. The hinges on the gas station door's squeaked as it was swung open, and I was greeted by one of the more unusual sights of my sad little cashiering career.
Her steps were unsteady, pink-black hair shifting and rippling as she staggered toward the candy section. As she stared intensely as the overpriced bars in their bulk boxes, I reflected this situation was both ordinary and unique. Clearly drunk girls in these moon-overseen hours were quite common, but usually they were in groups, hedonistic herds of high-pitched harpies who haunted my after-shift horker huggings. This one was by herself, a lone bird whose silver-winged necklace pendant I noticed only when she diagonally schlepped her way to the counter with a Snickers bar and a bag of pixie sticks.
She studied the electronic screen, and I studied her studying the electronic screen as I rang up her purchases.
"You're not you when you're hungry?" I asked, sliding the Snickers into a plastic bag.
Her eyes, hazel and vivid against her mascara, flicked up to me. "I'm always a pixie girl."
Hpnotiq, her breath informed. Also at least two shots of Bacardi Razz.
"Are you manic?"
"No, just drunk."
The pixie sticks joined the Snickers in the bag and I rustled it.
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
I looked significantly at the screen.
She looked at me.
"Um, your total is $3.77," I prompted.
Finally, movement. She dropped her head and searched through the pockets of her impossibly tight, short jean shorts. After a few moments, she smiled, shrugged, and looked up, "Sorry. All out of money!"
"...You seriously don't expect me to pay, do you?"
"Of course!"
"...Why?"
"Because I'm hot. And because I'm hot, that means we're having a meet-hot, like in the movies. You're meeting me, a hot girl."
"...You mean a meet-cute?"
She squinted, tipping her head and tapping her cheek, "...I guess. You're a little too pale to be cute, though."
I let the irony slide.
"No deal. They don't pay me enough to pay for customers' purchases."
"Aw, come on!" Then came the eye-bat and the rise on tip-toe, bringing her face close to mine, "Please?"
"No."
She pouted and dropped down, stumbling a couple steps back. Then she dug again into her pockets and, giving a shout, slammed a nickel down on the counter.
"There! Down payment! I'll pay you the rest tomorrow."
"...Fine." At this point, I just wanted the damn ordeal with. Arguing with people, even insanely hot girls, drains me. Hell, just talking to them does.
"Cool. You're cool. I'll see you tomorrow then. It'll be like a date. Except nothing like a date."
And so saying, she grabbed her bag and made her way out, narrowly missing overturning two endcaps and banging her kneecap on the door.
I sighed, slipped her nickel in my pants, and completed the transaction with a five dollar bill from my wallet.
She'd damned well better show up, I thought, although something told me she wouldn't. Drunk girls always forget the boys of the night when morning comes.