Moths and Men
—an excerpt—
They must have neglected this gas station for years. It’s on the edge of a dying tourist town and a bypassed section of highway. I’m surrounded by farmer’s fields that are peppered with decaying sheds and lined with crumbling fences. One of those sheds had been my cover until I made the dash to this station, completely winded and desperately in need of a ride.
Stopping to check if the station is abandoned, I am overwhelmed by nostalgia. Well-established spiders hang from cobwebs in every window. The hum of the hydro; the tapping of moths against the plexi-glass; the popping of moths that finally find bulbs. I’ve met most of my husbands in a place like this. The smell of gasoline burns the nostrils a little; but it makes me feel romantic.
Even the Chevy Cavalier parked at pump four looks like a ghost from the 80s, a cousin to my old Firebird.
A distant wail of sirens drifts across the field, so I tug at the Cavalier’s door handle, hoping that it’s unlocked. The handle gives way but I keep the door shut, subtly checking for keys in the ignition. It’s an easy way out of town if I just had the key.
