a solid white line.

I was to meet a person of interest. I was to drive to a specific gas station. A gas station in the desert. I was five minutes early.
I stood by my car, waiting. Mine was the only car in the lot.
– – –
At 7.19pm the shop attendant turned out the lights in the shop and locked the door from the outside. His boots looked solid and he did not kick off much dust.
He was about to exit left with little perturbation.
– – –
He travelled a thousand miles to get to his vehicle—his vessel to reach home.
No sooner had he started the engine than he realized he had forgotten something. His hair now pink, he rushed back to the shop.
– – –
He unlocked the door, deactivated the alarm system, reached inside and turned over the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed.’
He turned the alarm back on and locked the door again.
Beautifully moving with the wind—his entire being. The wind had picked up meanwhile.
– – –
I called out to him, “Hey.”
He said, “Hey.”
I said, “I’m meeting someone here.”
He said, “Okay.”
I said, “Yeah.”
He said, “Do you realize that once you leave here, this might be the last time you see this place?”
I said, “Yeah, I guess.”
He said, “All this might turn into a vague memory, a few blurred minutes of your life you might not care to recall at all later.”
And I said, “Yes.”