Soquel Exxon

Scrubbing concrete.

“Damn, it’s cold.”, said to no one.

There’s nobody around and it’s late. There are no cars and no gas sales. Derek’s humming some Warren Zevon. The air is crisp and the stars are bright.

The moon is full. Always a feeling of meloncholy comes with the full moon.
Something is not quite right…..

Maybe not some lychanthropic nightmare of fangs and fur,
yet there’s a definate, desperate yearning for something,
ANYTHING to happen.

To break the monotony of this constantly unfulfilled aspiration.

Rinsing concrete.

A river of suds glows blue-white on the blackness of the asphalt, slowly winding it’s way from the pumps to the street and into the unknown.

“…Second exit, right at the light, left at the stop sign.”
She’s smiling like she has no idea what was just said.

What WAS just said? Directions?
Where’d she go?
Time has slipped away again.

The night continues in fragments. The moon pauses, rushes on, stops then sprints…
never in the same place at a glance, never where it’s expected.

Mensroom.

“Damn.” Disgusted and annoyed, “People always dumping their trash in here.”

He hefts the body of a young woman over his shoulder and heads around to the back of the station to the faded blue dumpster, now black in the shadows.

The sound of shifting trash, the high pitch clink of colliding glass bottles and the boom of the lid being dropped shut echo across the lot and out towards the silent freeway.
He uses his passkey to the vending machine to grab a soda.

As the icy carbonated liquid slides down his throat,
parched by the evening’s activity,
he wonders why nothing interesting ever happens around here.