Three weeks ago, I pulled off the highway in Agoura Hills to get gas. This was early in Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, my attention was on the pump’s sticker price, so I didn’t see the woman coming until she was standing next to me, saying something unintelligible.
Early twenties or late teens, she was short, stocky, with knotty brown hair. Tan shorts, black sandals, dirty tank top. Her eyes were brightly green, I noticed, in contrast to what was most striking about the rest of her appearance: the fact that she was covered in mud. Legs dotted, clothes freckled, the left side of her face pocked so thickly, it could’ve been clown makeup applied like cake icing. It looked like she’d been standing next to a puddle when a truck drove by, or she’d slept in a ditch overnight.
I asked her to repeat what she said. No improvement. It was English, but so garbled I couldn’t separate the words. I heard her say food? She stared in silence. Was she high? Was she dangerously high? I pulled out my wallet and gave her a twenty-dollar bill. She didn’t look at it, eyes still locked on mine, then she took it, turned and walked to a burger joint next door, where a small dog was tied to a concrete column. She ignored the dog and went inside.
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