It’s late and I find myself hanging my head low in the glow of the vending machine of a gas station in the middle of nowhere. KitKat or M&Ms? I sigh. I was still lightheaded from drinking too much alcohol and dancing around like I was 19. Now, nearly 27, I was contemplating which candy I should take to balance out my blood sugar. Pathetic, I know.
I reach for the pocket of my leather jacket and take a crumpled dollar bill. I place it on my black nylon covered thigh and try to smoothen it before inserting it on the machine. I go for the M&Ms. And as I’m about to make my way out, I bump into you.
You’re a tall figure with dark hair and a sleeve tattoo. You’re close enough for me to tell that you smell like cigarettes and cologne. And naturally, I’m hooked. I look into your eyes as you apologize for running into me, and I just stare into them. Jesus. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe you actually *are* insanely attractive.
And just like that, between awkward apologies and instinctive flirting, we exchange names and smiles and now I find myself in the passenger seat of your car. “Where are we going again?”, I ask.