by Emily Ruby
As Ruby sat in the black turning chair behind the counter, her eyes gazed past the broken blinds, dusty window, through the two pumping stations, through another window (this time tinted) and into a shabby mini-van. A small child inside, positioned in a way which is not comfortable, but allows her to rest her eyes and let her mind slowly drift away. Hair like straw pressed up against this window, as if mimicking a pillow. The car seat is nearly suffocating yet her tired eyes remain shut in the most facile way possible. When she wakes, she will have no idea where she is. She will be seeing a new place, having no recollection of how she got there or where she is going. Ruby thought. The child simply waits for the car to come to a break and for big hands to scoop her up, only to return her to the house she has lived in for all three years of her life. Ruby envied the luxury that the little girl unknowingly had; for she had once known this feeling too. Although oblivious, the little girl barely knew what it felt like to worry. Someone else was always responsible for her safety and happiness. The child was brittle yet youthful, beautiful yet messy, innocent yet tempered. She kept watching the child, eyes shut, chest alternating between inflation and deflation. Suddenly the gas cap screwed back on. Even the heavy door slam of her father’s return could not wake her. The mini-van then continued following the asphalt stream it had trusted ten minutes earlier.