03.11.2008 - 5:41 p.m.

I have this thing about gas stations. No matter what, no matter if it�s day or night, how many people are around, or who I am with, I am always thinking about who might be approaching me, and what I would do if they tried to steal my car. Or me. I am not normally an easily-frightened person, but gas stations creep me out.

Today, I was filling up at the station just outside my neighborhood entrance. I was standing at the back of my car, hand on the pump because I know, though I can never remember which it is, there is one pump in that row that won�t automatically stop when you�re full. I�m watching the guy on the other side of my pump fill his pickup in the space between the pump and the column. Just keeping an eye on him.

I�m interrupted by the person one pump behind me, a younger guy filling an older sedan. �What year?� He wants to know. I tell him. I am wondering at this point why he is breaking the unspoken rule about minding your own beeswax while filling. I�m driving a Miata. I love it, but it�s hardly the sort of car that requires a discussion. I still need four gallons before I can make my escape.

I turn back to my pump, but he�s determined to make conversation. �Stick shift?� he asks, and I answer �Yep. Not much point if it wasn�t.� I grin, not a real smile but a tight smalltalk-with-strangers look. He nods wisely and I turn away again. Not all the way away, because now he has me nervously watching him. But enough away that he should stop talking.

�Do you like it?� he asks. I am thinking about my rings, and how they are not facing him. I wonder what adjusting my hair such that he would notice them would say to him (pick one: �married, no point in hitting on me,� �married, probably won�t mind lack of commitment,� or �hey, if you rape me, you get a free diamond.�) I wonder if I should just get over myself, too, because thoughts like that are crazy. �Yeah, I like it,� I say. One gallon left. �I need to clean it out soon, so I can put the top down again.�

The pump finally finishes. I make sure the sale clears, hang up the pump, and twist on the gas cap. In the corner of my eye he has started coming around the back of his car. �Well have a nice day,� I say, swinging down into my own car as if I do not notice he was trying to (pick one: check his own tire/introduce himself in completely innocent fashion/murder me). �You too,� he says, and like that I am gone.

In a final stroke of crazy, I do not head to the entrance to my neighborhood, clearly visible as it is from the pumps. I make a long circuit, so he will not know where I live.

I fail at basic human interaction.

-stonebridge

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