With 5 minutes before store opening, I arrived at the desolate gas station. One fellow patron was in the parking lot, locked away inside his truck. His disinterested stare betrayed a glint of curiosity as I walked by; could he be wondering what I, too, was doing at this same facility so early in the day? I had no point or purpose to engage him in his query, though, for I had business to attend to, and apparently so did he because he drove off as soon as I went inside. So that plot thread went nowhere.
The mood turned into a noir as I slipped through the convenience store. I knew where the ATM was. I had never used it before, but still, there it was. Beckoning me. Requesting me. My fingers perched on top of the buttons. I danced its dance. The flight of numbers was making it dizzy but still I pressed. The frenzy of motion was too much for the machine. It begins to vomit cash. I collect my prize, my hands working too feverishly amongst the grain of pressable surfaces. Cash and receipt in hand, I move back out into the cold. Now only 4 minutes before Target's opening.