Marked for life
It was a Saturday and I was stopped in Grand Forks taking a break. Heat and distance had tired me out, so I was sitting in the shade at a gas’n'go drinking some water to rehydrate.
Another hundred and a half and I’d be home.
I watched her pull up to the air pump in front of me in her beater. The right front tire was low and needed air. The windows were rolled down. Obviously the ac wasn’t doing its duty — if it was even working.
She was young — maybe early- to mid-twenties at the most. Pretty, too. And with dark hair — my nemesis.
When she got out it was obvious that she was on her way to a reception of some sort: dark slacks, well-worn brown shoes and a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. In her haste to get air I think she forgot about those rolled-up sleeves.
It looked like she was having some difficulty getting the tire to take air, so I ambled over and offered to help. She explained that she was on her way to a wedding reception and was already late.
I took the air hose from her and as she stood up, that’s when I saw the track marks on her arms. They were healed over and scarred — definitely not fresh. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that she was watching me notice them.
I looked up at her.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I am now,” was her reply.
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