leningradka.

$1.17 per gallon at the Speedway on East Broad? There was a Marathon near home that was cheaper and more convenient, but Carolina insisted on Speedway. They always had Dunhill, and sometimes they had Johnny Shapiro. He had been picking up extra shifts lately, it seemed, which just so happened to correlate with her unusual proclivity for overpriced gas. She pulled into pump 1 and turned the key to kill the engine. While filling the car, she turned to check who was working the register. It was him, hunched over a crossword puzzle, bopping his head awkwardly to More than a Feeling. When he sensed the car outside, he turned and his eyes met hers. Was that a smile? He wondered. Fourth Thursday in a row – can’t be a coincidence, can it? The bell rang to remind Jonathan there was a customer to attend to. He shoved the crossword under a pile of advertisements and turned to check his hair in the window.

“Evening, Miss Grabowski,” he said.

“Jonathan! How was your Tu Bishvat? Could you please tell your mother that the pomegranate pie and cinnamon twists were delightful?”

“I’ll pass that on. Did you do anything special?”

“Oh, I’m not Jewish.”

“Oh, you aren’t?” he paused. Maybe it wasn’t that odd. There were only so many Jews in Columbus; they couldn’t all become teachers.