Women at the Texaco 3
Ray saw her as she came across from the gas pumps, her yellow skirt like a little sail. She came through the door, it beeped, and four men turned to look at her. She had a little tattoo on her lower back. A butterfly. A flower. Something like that. Not that that was the real reason, though. They all would have looked at her anyway. She was blonde and tanned. She had on black boots that were knee high, the skirt and tattoo, and a top that looked like a corset.
There were five men if you counted Ray.
They watched as she went to the counter and paid. Ray looked her in the face when he gave her her change. She looked him in the face and he saw she was afraid. It was only a moment. She was silent, there was fear, and he saw the men peripherally, surrounding her. He said what he always said, automatically, in an automatic voice, and told her to have a good day now, and take care.
She turned and went, and they watched her, even craning to see how she'd go. They were silent, together in that way, watching. The station was silent until she reached the door and it beeped. Then the four all spoke. The one man said damn, swearing slowly. Asked, had they seen that? One, a fat one with chips, said those were fuck-me-boots, weren't they, and they called that a tramp stamp. An older one said his daughter had a tattoo like that, a stamp was it?, but wow, ungh, it made you ache. Bet she's wildcat, said the fat one. Little blonde like that. The fourth one said hot, hot, hot, like a howl, and he turned to Ray and said he bet that was the best part of this job, all these girls.
Ray didn't say anything, and looked out at the pumps. He watched the girl in the yellow skirt. She went and got into her car. Her skirt slid up some on the seat. He didn't say anything to the men or with the men, but didn't know if maybe that made it worse. Whatever he did it still seemed wrong. It still seemed like he was a part of it too.