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Lock the cash register. Turn off the lights. Lock the doors. And jokes it’s the same as every other night. I stand on the sidewalk in front of the 7-Eleven with Al. Tonight we aren’t talking. We smoke our Marlboros and stare past the gas station. It’s quiet out here, only the buzz of the lights and the chirping of jokes crickets. We’re just far enough outside the city to escape the noise, not far enough to escape jokes the smog. In the dark, I can’t see the gray fog, and this weedy dump in the middle of nowhere could almost be pretty. But only because I can’t see it. I look right, down the highway that leads into Houston. For no fucking reason, I start thinking about the jogger. I was sitting behind the counter watching the Astros get beat on the ten-inch security television.
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