It was one of those mysteriously warm January nights, and I was in a great mood and had pulled in here for gas when I saw this good-looking guy get out of his car. My first thought was, “I think he’s married, but that’s OK”–which is kind of debauched, I know, but I figured a little shit talking wasn’t going to kill me. So I smiled at him and said, “Don’t you want to fill ‘er up?” because he was only cleaning his windshield, and he kind of smiled and giggled before leaving. I giggled at myself then–I’m surprised at the things that fall out of my mouth sometimes. But a few minutes later he pulled up on my passenger side. I leaned over to roll down the window and he said, “Can I have your number?” I said, “Sure, what’s your name?” and he said, “Rob,” and I said, “You’ve got to give me something better than that–I already have a Rob in my book.” So he gave me his full name and I took down his number, and later that night I called him up. That was months ago: this week we moved in together. Rob told me that when he first drove away that night he thought, “Wait, did a cute girl just initiate a conversation with you and make a sexual innuendo to boot?” So he decided to take the risk and drive back. To all his friends I’m the gas station girl.
