M.P. Powers

A Time and a Place

The girl behind the counter
of the Texaco station
is already dressed up for the night.

She’s wearing a tight
black dress, high heels, her massive
boobs spilling out
of her top.

The door to the garage
suddenly opens.
It’s the mechanic. A short, unassuming

alcoholic 
with grease-stains all over 
his navy shirt and 
trousers, his unshaven 
face

full of crosshatchings
and pockmarks.
He hands her something
in an oily red rag.

She puts it on the counter
without thinking about
it. “I wanna go
dancing tonight,” she says. “Do you
like to dance?”

He shrugs. He’s eye-level
with her breasts. “I bet you’d make a good
dancer,” she says, swaying
a bit.

He blushes some, 
exits.
“How can I help you,” she asks
the customer in front
of me.

“$40 on pump twelve.” She takes
the money, gives
him his change.

“I just wanna go dance,” 
she sighs. “I love dancing.” 

He nods,
heads for the door.

Meanwhile, in the case beside
her, three Jamaican
beef patties sit under the heat lamp, 
glowering.