The loneliness of late-night transactions

11:47 PM

and the pump numbers roll,

and I'm paying some toll

just for being here at all.

The fluorescent light hums.

The guy behind the counter

might be watching, or might not—

his face in the glass, a kind of ghost,

existing in two places at once.

I can see the energy drinks

lined up in the cooler,

violent colors

under the light.

I don't need anything from inside.

I'm just here

to pump gas

and share this moment

with a stranger

who will never

know

I was here.

We don't touch.

We don't speak.

We just occupy

the same late-night,

two people

who will never

see each other again,

who will never

mean anything

to each other,

but who exist

in this space

together

anyway.

The pump clicks off.

$42.53.

I get back in my car.

He stays behind the counter.

This is what it means

to be lonely

in a city—

to exist next to people

and remain completely

alone,

and to accept it,

and to drive away

into the night

like this was

normal,

like this was

all there ever was.