Last night's events

Saturday night, 3:17 am

It's way too fucking early and the city is still sleeping off it's beer buzz. After a restless night of trying to write something creative and failing miserably I decide to take a little walk around the block. The gas station is unusually busy for this time of night. The good news is I somehow managed to snag the last chocolate chip cookie. I swear to god every time I come in here lately it's the same story...no chocolate chip's, but about 6 or 7 oatmeal raisin and peanut butter's.

There's some yuppie asshole standing in front of me in line. He looks to be about 40-ish. He's bald with a comb-over and he's wearing a denim button-up polo shirt, some really tight tapered jeans(that fall to his upper ankles), one of those stupid brown belts that look like the leather has been weaved, white socks, and dark brown penny loafers (with dimes wedged into the slit where the pennies are “supposed” to be) He also reeks vaguely like mothballs. He's chatting up a storm, probably cause he's had too much coke. I can only assume tonight was another unsuccessful night at the karaoke bar so he's trying to do whatever he can to pick up on the shy girl who is working the register before he goes home to another lonely night of jerking off. I shift from my right foot to my left and then back to my right, as though I have to take a piss. At this point I'm beginning to lose my patience with this guy. I'm anxious to get home and jot down a clever idea that had sprung to mind into my notebook. I politely cough, trying to give him a hint. He finally notices the line beginning to form behind him and chuckles. He then spots something on the floor and bends down.

“Hey! A nickel, this must be my lucky day.” He tells me, and me alone, with a nervous giggle. He pauses and stares at me as though he's expecting me to say something about what just transpired. It looks like he's holding his breath.

I don't say a word to him. I instead look away and start fingering the refillable mugs on display on the shelf beside me as though these cheap fucking plastic mugs are more interesting than what this lonely, pathetic guy has to say to me. Fuck, how insulting.

After what seems like an eternal awkward silence he finally gets the clue, turns around, bids Missy adieu, and walks out to his awaiting Mercedes.

I step up to the counter to pay for my cookie and coffee. Missy looks kind of spooked. She keeps staring down at my t-shirt. I don't know why. It's a tight as hell, faded 70's vintage Harley Davidson t-shirt I found at the consignment shop that reads “Support your local biker trash.”

“I think that guy is going to die in a fiery car crash tonight.”

“What?” Missy looks up as her face turns red. She's getting more and more nervous by the second.

“That guy. He said he found a nickel... that today is his lucky day. Famous last words, right?” I pause, no response, just a vacant stare. Somewhere in the distance I hear crickets churping. “It's a joke. I'm kidding... it's an ironic hypothetical.” I smile to put this poor girl a little bit more at ease.

Like a delayed orgasm, all of the tension slides off her face and body into the tiled floor beneath her. She slowly begins to smile ear to ear and then begins to laugh. Not so much at my joke but a laugh of relief. I continue our conversation by asking her how she's doing, and about the weather, and about the price of tea in China; about whatever. Now that I've got her comfortable and actually talking to me I feel a little braver. It's time for the spider to weave his web.

I flash her the biggest smile I can muster and say: “Hey Missy, may I tell you something?"

"Yes?" A spark of hope ignites in her eyes.

"You guys bake some fantastic chocolate chip cookies...”