Cayman went

She wasn't looking at me, and I was doing my best to make sure I didn't look like I was looking at her.

I'd seen the Porsche about a mile earlier, when an ambulance whipped into the "wrong" pair of lanes and the little silver coupe came to a halt with, well, Porsche-like enthusiasm. The sirens passed; the car took off.

A couple of lights later, there was a service station vending 91 octane for a few ticks below three dollars. I pulled in, and there was the Porsche, its driver resplendent in bright casuals and/or casual brightness, a source of sunshine on a mostly-overcast day. I stopped rather too far past the point where the nozzle and Gwendolyn's filler lined up neatly; I was prepared to argue, should it become necessary, that I was trying to avoid scraping the door on the monstrous concrete slab that made up the far end of the island. It would not become necessary: I had not been noticed. Taking up the squeegee, I made the rounds, and in the time it took to dispatch the dust of the day, ten or eleven gallons had passed through the hose.

I took one last look: she'd gotten back in, the boxer six started up with a satisfying tha-RUMPH, and she disappeared faster than Sue Storm on Pamprin. She'd put in 15 gallons, which meant she'd run it down pretty close to the E. Which, it occurred to me, I'd probably have done too: the fewer stops you make, the more you get to drive. I suppressed a sigh and drove on home.

Posted at 6:44 PM to General Disinterest