Getting gas in the town of C. en route to returning a rental car. I pull up to the service station pump, and am confused at first when an employee approaches my vehicle. Then I remember that the state where I grew up has only full service gas stations. I roll down the window and shut off the engine. The employee is a woman in her late forties or early fifties who looks a bit rough around the edges. ‘What’ll it be, honey?’ she asks in a raspy, two-pack-a-day baritone. I tell her to fill the tank. She wanders back to the window and asks me how my day’s going. ‘So-so,’ I say, and force a smile, hoping that’ll suffice. ‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘just getting started, huh? Well, I hope it gets better.’ I then watch as she retrieves the window washer and begins scrubbing down the windshield. ‘You’re probably wondering why I don’t lift the wipers,’ she barks at me from the other side of the vehicle. Apparently people complain about her atypical technique, which she explains to me in a level of detail I can’t quite follow. I try to think of some kind of banter to close the transaction: ‘You couldn’t maybe fix the crack while you’re at it?’ I joke, alluding to the crack in the windshield that’s spread from a microscopic ding (the result of an errant piece of gravel on my drive). She laughs, ‘I wish I could, honey.’ She tells me about a product available at Walmart that keeps cracks from spreading. I pay for the gas and offer her a $2 tip, which she accepts gratefully. ‘Hope your day gets a lot better, hon. You look pretty good, if it’s any consolation.’ I smile, embarrassed, and drive away.