I twirl the cigarette onto the eagle in my palm. The embers fade with each gentle turn, until silver turns to dull grey. A gloved knuckle taps hard on the window. The ash showers my lap and the quarter dings to the floor. The back right window cracks, then the passenger side, then finally my own window lowers. “10 regular, please. Credit.” He holds out his wool hand. I put the half smoked cigarette on the console and fumble through my wallet, looking for the powdery blue visa.

He heads to the pump and I blow at the ash, not wanting to smear it on my black pants. The knuckle taps against the plastic gas cap. I lean down and pull the latch. I always forget.

I sit up again catching a glimpse of myself in the salted side mirror. Mascara drips from my bottom eyelashes. Silver and pink eye shadow condensing itself into a sticky line at the crevice of each eyelid. The corners of my nose red and flaking. Dry skin.

A squealing car jerks to a stop across the concrete barrier. I look over quick and see two boys in the front seat. A little older than me. A baggy Eagles sweatshirt and black hat gets out and heads to the cubicle between the pumps. Marlboro reds. I act like I don’t see him.

I pull at my skin, smearing the makeup back into its place. I know they’re watching. I play along. I ruffle my hair and stick my chin up. My jaw looks best when I do that and they think so too. I hear them. I catch a few whistles and a “hey there sexy.” I smack on some chap stick. More muffled cat calls.

Click. Twist. The black glove knocks. It hands me my card, and blocks their view. When he moves, I stare into the car. Smiling. Until I realize that there are also two boys in the back seat. They all join the cooing. I grab the half cigarette, and white lighter. They like that, too.