Five Gallons of Love

This entry is part 9 of 16 in the series MicroFiction

Driving in circles, around the block again and again. He knows he should stop. In front of her house, get out of the car and tell her exactly how he feels about her before it’s too late.

If she’s even been looking casually out the window, she must have seen his car more than twice in his forty or fifty trips around her block. What must she think of that? Will she think he’s just pathetic? Becoming a stalker in the aftermath of their romance? Or will she be thinking how sweet it is that he’s circling the block, trying to get the right words to convey what he feels about her?

He knows that he can’t continue to circle her block. Eventually, he’ll run out of gas, or his tires will begin to wear out from the right turns. Well over a hundred of them by now. Sooner or later, even if she doesn’t notice, someone else might and then call the police. With his luck, he’ll be pulled over right in front of her house and he’ll have to try and pretend he doesn’t know her while she stands on her front porch to watch the commotion. Hopefully, she’d pretend the same, to avoid embarrassment for both of them.

He can’t keep this up.

He pulls over in front of her house. Before he is fully out of his car, she is on the front porch. She had noticed. And now she was looking at him with nervous anticipation, biting her lower lip hopefully as he comes up the front walk.

“Nancy,” he says as he stops at the foot of her porch steps.

“Yes?” she says, holding her hands in front of her like a little kid in church.

“Fuck you.”

As he walks back to his car, he hears her door close with finality. He feels pounds lighter.

He drives away and does not circle her block.

His only regret is that he didn’t gas up. He walks past her house towards the closest gas station with his gas can in hand.

If she notices, she doesn’t say anything.

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