Binary Blues

I had a quarter-tank of gas, more than enough to get me through the week. The night was cooler than it had been in weeks; finally felt a little like October. I sighed. I didn't want to get gas now, and I sure as hell won't want to get gas later. When nothing you do matters, then you are truly free. I grabbed my keys and put on my lobster sandals. 

The mutts wanted to come along, so I let them in the backseat of the car and rolled down the windows. The autoplay on the stereo connected to my phone and started playing dark jazz; the kind of music that sounds like it's punching you in the gut while it smothers you with a pillow. 

I don't remember selecting that music. 

The intersection is down to one lane, but it's late and not busy. In the orange streetlights, I see a man and a woman sitting on the sidewalk and chatting, their bags scattered around them. They seem resigned but not unhappy. It's dark and I can't be sure. There is a god of pain, I think, and they must have eluded him today. I can't be sure. It's late and dark. 

I remember the terror of uncertainty. I think I liked it. 

I tell myself that now, but I can't be sure. Whatever it is I'm doing now feels like mimicry. A pantomime of solitude. 

Moving slowly, like a shark, just fast enough to live, but not fast enough to get anywhere.

The gas station attendant is nowhere to be seen. I use the self-fill station. As I press the buttons on the keypad, it beeps at me and adds zeros and ones and zeros and ones in a repeating pattern. Some binary message, probably. But I don't know binary, so I ignore it. 

My tank is full, and my car says I can now go 500 miles, if I drive conservatively. I feel a little better.