Gas Station Waltz

            The relentless sun beats down on my weathered face as I watch the wind rustle the leaves of the distant trees.  Sweat has begun to make small rivers down the side of my face, causing it to fall off my pointed chin like tears.  My black vest and pants stick to my skin as if they were a part of me.  I am not allowed to battle the heat by going into the ice-box of a building 15 feet away.  No, I have to stand here, by the absurdly bright red gas pumps, every day, and wait for that merciful car to appear.

            You see, I am a gas station attendant.  If a car pulls up to Mobilgas, I will be there to pump the appropriate gasoline into the pedestrian’s vehicle (in rain, snow, sleet, heat), get their pay, and wish them a good day.  In all my 15 years working for Mobligas, I could count on one hand the number of times that more than 10 cars have come to the pumps to receive gasoline in one day.  In other words, my job is extremely uneventful.  Over the years, I have found ways to entertain myself.  Since I am not allowed to leave the red gas pumps, I listen to them.  There is a radio, or speaker, in each of the pumps that plays music from one of the local radio stations.  Whoever gets to pick the radio station clearly enjoys classical music, because I find myself humming along to Beethoven and Mozart on a daily basis. 

Waltz music has always been my favorite; once I hear a waltz, I am humming it all day.  Waltz music has always been my escape; it has been my escape to a better time, a time where my hands do not always smell like gasoline.  When a waltz comes on those speakers at the bright red gas pumps, I am no longer suffering in the blistering heat, or shivering in a snowstorm.  I am dancing with the love of my life for the first time.  Her long, dark green dress flows around her as she twirls in circles against the music.  Her golden hair is beginning to fall out of its bun as she aimlessly twirls on the dance floor.  Meeting her half-twirl, I take her white-gloved hand, and laugh at the smile in her emerald eyes.  I put my hand on her back, drawing her closer, and imagine that the quickening music is her heartbeat.  A smile touches her lips, and mischief fills her sparkling eyes.  Her eyes mesmerize me; they are filled with an eternity of emotion.  I can feel her getting closer to me, and my mind starts to panic.  Thankfully, she does not give me enough time to go into a full-fledged panic attack.  Her lips are on mine just as the waltz reaches its final note.

I open my eyes, 15 years later, and can still feel the touch of my love’s soft kiss.  A single tear has made its way down my cheek, mingling with the sweat.  The waltz has ended, and my memories with it.