Morose

The skies were clad with shades of grey and blue, leaving just enough light to see the dark streaks of tire. I methodically turned on the air too high for comfort. Familiar jaded tunes pressed the speakers, competing against the hiss of wet streets and the broken metronome of drops on my windshield. A dull, orange light flickered on my dashboard, accosting me and my irresponsibility.

I pulled into a Valero station.

I tucked my wallet in my pocket and locked my car in fear of the Valero night creatures. The teal awning didn’t sufficiently tuck me away from the rain. Selecting the low-grade fuel, I grabbed the nozzle. A small Hispanic man lit a cigarette by the front doors. Behind him, I saw yellow—stalks of bananas. I looked again, laughing that I had mistaken individually packaged gluttony for yellow fruit. But in that instant, the neon fruit was reality. There was something other than Pall Malls or Slim Jims or other morose items with names that rhyme to disguise their grip on the mundane. Instead, there was just rain and florescent lighting.

I got in my car. The same frigid air pressed my skin, and the same drone flooded out of my speakers. I grabbed my friend’s jacket, left behind on another voyage, in hopes of reminding myself of something other than these monochromatic nights. It was grey and had a familiar, but insignificant, musk. I laid it down and drove.