“Well, they just closed the main highway, Megan. It looks like we are stuck here for a while.”
The elderly gentleman did not look over at his 19 year-old co-worker. He was sure she was rolling her eyes at him. She had done it a total of 27 times during the three hour shift they had worked so far. Instead, the 73 year-old gazed out the front window, and watched as the overly large white flakes continued to accumulate outside the door. He wondered at what point they would need to start shoveling the front sidewalk and entrance, and gathered from the heavy sigh, and loud “pop” of Megan’s annoying wad of gum, that she would not be volunteering for that particular task.
She sat on the stool, looking off into nothingness. She disgusted him. She had no gumption; a term she had recently rolled her eyes at, after, of course, he explained what it meant. Her life’s ambition was to work in this mini-mart until she had enough money to follow her on-again, off-again boyfriend around, as his rock band traveled through various small towns, playing what they deemed passed as music, and sleeping in seedy motels that cost $23.95 a night, and included nearly-clean sheets. What sickened him the most, however, was the dreaming look she got in her eyes whenever she talked about her greasy-haired, acne-infested boyfriend, Mad Dog; of course the elderly man had known the little shit since he was two, and went by his given name, Petey.