Serial Fiction: Part 3
Here, in Part 3 of our story, Chuck finds himself on his own. And what does he do? Let’s find out…
The Shifting Supercontinent: Part 3
I walk across the windswept street, waves at my back. Karen in the car asleep. The thing we can’t talk about, aren’t talking about. I can see for miles, and a quarter-mile or so off the beach, a gas-station sign glows hard against the night.
A replacement for the archetypal lighthouse: The Circle K.
Outdated newspapers flap against the windows, get caught in the gutters, wrapped around dead lampposts.
The gas station stays open for the handful of winter people, but it’s almost midnight, and I can see the guy sweeping up for the night. In the windowglass, my face in reflection—dark, sunken eyes, downturned mouth— lines up with his as he turns, maybe to check the time. I open the door, walk to the cooler at the back, knock over a few bags of chips on my way, reach to pick them up, the cash, rubberbanded falls from my hooded-sweatshirt pocket.
“Hey, guy,” he says, “we’re just about closed up here.”
I put the cash in my pocket, pulling out a twenty. Put the chips back on the shelf, think of Karen in the car, pull back a bag of french onion. Grab some cheap beer, pay, walk out.
Tune in next time to find out if we’ve seen the last of the nervous Circle K attendant…
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