I’m standing in the filling station, listening to a twenty-something talk loudly on a Bluetooth. She’s telling the person on the line that she’s in “survival mode” and been that way since college. I wonder what motivates her to share her story, in this setting, with a room full of strangers.
She’s taking her time at the counter, oblivious to the line forming behind her and the storm brewing outdoors. I shiver. My short sleeve sweater isn’t keeping me warm in this air conditioning. It’s just damp enough outside to be irritating.
I want to tell the girl that she’s not the only one in survival mode. We all are. That our existence alone makes us survivors. That’s we’re all trying to make it to old age.
The cashier completes the transaction and Miss Oversharer leaves through the same door she entered from. In her newly found haste, she has forgotten something. It’s not the receipt that is missing. It’s her heart. She’s left it behind on the floor of the filling station for everyone to step around.