Missionary Position(100)

By: Daisy Prescott

He didn’t say bye or anything. He turned on his heel and jogged across the street like the last thirty minutes had never happened. I stood there, frozen, long enough to see him walk inside the gas station’s store. When he emerged a minute later, he had a blue slurpee in hand and a pair of wayfarer sunglasses masking his greenish hazel eyes. Maybe he hadn’t been feeding me a line about the slurpee.

His gaze lifted to me, and when I squinted I could see his wide grin across the expanse of suburban asphalt. No amount of sprawl could keep his charm from reaching me. He sidled over to an old blue Ford truck, hopped in, and pulled away without a second glance.

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