sailing4ever
New member
- Joined
- May 13, 2010
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
I first met Dominique not long after I started driving my 1998 Jeep Cherokee. I had recently purchased the corroded, antediluvian vehicle from my grandparents for a buck and a half, a tactic I mischievously devised to avoid paying a single cent to the IRS. With the befriending of Dominique “The-Mobile-Girl,” as I would come to call her, began the part of my life you could call my life as a regular. Before that, I’d occasionally slip into the small Mobile storefront to pay for gas or grab a Vitamin Water or whip up a French Vanilla Mocha from the large, automated machine in the back. But now, I returned everyday to the Mobile, yet still seldom buying something other than gas. I cherished my life as a regular. I became enamored with the familiar ring of the automated door bell. I venerated and feasted off the meticulous small talk and the comings and goings of the Mobile on North Avenue.
I walked into the small gas station to pay for 18 gallons of unleaded gasoline I had pumped into my “new” Jeep Cherokee in whatever crumpled bills I had in my pocket. Slightly alarmed at the appearance of the young woman working the register, I dug feverously through my pockets looking for 5 cents while she stared through narrow, half-open eyelids. Her stony gaze screamed, “I hate my job and, most of the time, my life.” She was not the skinniest woman I’d ever seen; her obesity fatuously complemented by a strand or two of bright pink hair that hung over her eyes. She was sipping loudly from an oversized Blue Raspberry Slushie—the kind that stains your entire mouth blue for a unreasonable amount of time—and every so often, I caught her licking her lips with utmost authority, a metallic tongue ring moving through her pierced flesh.
I walked into the small gas station to pay for 18 gallons of unleaded gasoline I had pumped into my “new” Jeep Cherokee in whatever crumpled bills I had in my pocket. Slightly alarmed at the appearance of the young woman working the register, I dug feverously through my pockets looking for 5 cents while she stared through narrow, half-open eyelids. Her stony gaze screamed, “I hate my job and, most of the time, my life.” She was not the skinniest woman I’d ever seen; her obesity fatuously complemented by a strand or two of bright pink hair that hung over her eyes. She was sipping loudly from an oversized Blue Raspberry Slushie—the kind that stains your entire mouth blue for a unreasonable amount of time—and every so often, I caught her licking her lips with utmost authority, a metallic tongue ring moving through her pierced flesh.
