You. At the Tire and Lube Express. You said lubeand I—did you notice?—revved. Your name tagwas missing so I read your hair, curled like a string of e’s,your forearms drizzled with soft hairs like a boy’sfirst moustache. Apart from that, you were builtlike a walrus. The kind of man that drives a Fordpickup. Black or silver. You said, There might be a gas leakand We can’t fix that here, but don’t worry, we’ll get you fixed.By fixed you meant hooked up, by hooked up you meantin touch with and meant nothing beyond touch.
Me. Volvo. Smelled like gasoline: I overfilled the tankbefore the oil change. I took the package that comeswith a filter replacement. Have you already forgotten me?I had trouble with the debit machine. Remember? You said,Turn your card the other way—remember?—and took my hand,not the card, took my hand with the card in itand swiped it through. Remember. Please.The gasoline. The woman almost on fire.
