Past Gilman, I pull in for gas. I slide my card and punch buttons, straining to read in the glare.
“Please see the attendant.”
Of fucking course. I open the door to an room shelved with uneatable crap.
“Hello?”
She pops up behind the counter. Half-buzzed hard red hair, barred nips under a tight white tank.
Masked, we both stare, hungers recognized.
“Passing through?”
“No real hurry.”
I wake early as the sun peeks the window, its slanting beam lighting her breasts. I slip out, dress, and drive away, tasting her still.
Some days you gotta believe the machine.
