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He took his change, dropped it into a pocket of his trousers, and pushed through the door. Outside, he shook the pack to jostle some cigarettes through the opening. As he raised it to his mouth and pinched out a cigarette with his lips, he noticed the woman at pump number one. |
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She wore a clear plastic glove so she wouldn't soil her hand with the messy job. Obviously, she didn't enjoy pumping her own gas. |
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Willis wondered if he should offer to do it for her. |
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She'd probably think I'm trying to pick her up. |
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She looked good, bending over like that. Her faded jeans were pulled taut against her rump. Her blue T-shirt was so tight that he could see the bumps of her spine and the outline of her bra. The bottom of it had come untucked in back, baring a strip of skin to the chilly night. |
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She must be freezing, Willis thought. |
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Maybe I should offer to help. |
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He took the unlighted cigarette from his mouth, slipped it into his pocket (it'll probably pick up pocket lint), and stepped off the walkway beside the office. He took one stride before thunder shook the night. |
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The rain came down, masking the bright lights of the Mobil station, splashing its heat onto Willis as he hurried toward the woman with a strange excitement. |
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She was dry beneath the island's roof. No longer pumping gas. Standing up straight with nozzle by her side, a look of shock on her face as Willis came out of the rain. |
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