The smell of gasoline fumes consumed the gas station. I tossed the now-empty can on the floor and grabbed a Zippo lighter off a shelf. Ironically enough, one with the ace of spades on the sides. I thought for a moment about the location and class of the joint. “Hartford?” “Y-yeah.” I placed a cigarette between my lips, a dark smile pulling on the corners. “The correct answer is you had insurance.” “Wait,” he pleaded. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Let me apologize—” His words became white noise in my head, a gurgling, annoying sound. Standing in front of the glass doors, I lit the cigarette between my
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