Past Gilman, I pull in for gas. I slide my card and punch buttons, straining to read in the glare.

"Please see the attendant."

Of fucking course. I open the door to an room shelved with uneatable crap.

"Hello?"

She pops up behind the counter. Half-buzzed hard red hair, barred nips under a tight white tank. 

Masked, we both stare, hungers recognized.

"Passing through?"

"No real hurry."

I wake early as the sun peeks the window, its slanting beam lighting her breasts. I slip out, dress, and drive away, tasting her still.

Some days you gotta believe the machine.