sic transit

They rode in silence. After all, she had extended a literal open-door invitation. Neither one of them asked about destination or purpose; neither offered a clue. A chess game without pieces or chessboard. This went on for a good twenty, thirty miles, into the gloaming. No phone checks, no humming, no shifting in their seats. A rest stop loomed in eight miles. He could see she was running on empty. She slowed and drifted into the expansive, well-lighted rest area anchored by a large building with fast-food joints, stores with souvenirs and local produce and crafts, and toilets. As she paused before parking, he fished a twenty out of his left pocket, placed it on the dash, opened the door, and darted inside in search of a bathroom. She took the money, put it in her jeans back pocket, and angled into a parking space. She got out and locked the car with her fob, waited for the confirming honk, and then repeated it. 

Will he come back? Do I care? Should I ditch him? He doesn't scare me. But I've been wrong before.

He skipped the handwashing, seized by a fear.

Shit. I better get out there. She's going to drive off. I just know it.

When he emerged outside, he scanned the parking lot and didn't see the Rabbit. His breathing raced, until he spotted the car, empty, in the back corner, not far from where truckers assembled as they called it a night. He started strolling toward the car, then stopped himself. I'm hungry, plus who knows where the next spot is and whether she'll stop there. Sounds like a five-piece chicken tenders and a large coffee. Maybe she'll let me drive. She doesn't know about the DWIs. What if she comes out and doesn't see me, and says fuck it? Hurry up.

She stepped outside and couldn't find the car. It was right there. I know it was. He stole it, I bet he stole it, cocksucker.