Stakeout

It seems after, all this time, I have forgotten to write about them. The two that sit in the car outside the LPG vault, that shudders and creaks when gas needs to be syphoned through big pipes into hungry motor-vehicles. They sit in their gold car. Gold that is faded, but not as if of former glory, but as if a cheap spectacle that has rubbed off quickly and leaves residue on your thumb. They sit in their car, and do not speak. A man, and a woman. One Caucasian male, with short greying hair, perfect teeth, with smallish features. One Asian woman, little English, probably 50, probably lonely, no rings, no jewellery, says that the guy in the car is "her friend". Both short. Both spectacled. Both slow speaking, but only ever enter the shop alone. No sudden movements. Everything is like slow breathing to them.

[Not quiet breathing though. That was a long time ago. That was someone else. We don't talk about those breaths. They make my heart heavy, and my body finds no way to replicate that solace in adulthood.]

When they sit out the front of the gas tank, I lock my console door, and turn the automatic doors to exit only. I try and look for knives, or guns, or lipstick marks on cheeks. Anything with motive. Anything for hints. They sit there, and they do not speak, and they watch me through the window. As if a stakeout, where the suspect knows he's being monitored but cannot move in case of possible arrest or incarceration. My boss says "People like those are the ones that abduct people in America. You know, real weirdos. We don't get lots o' that 'round here." He asked them to leave once, and not come back. Said we'd call the police if they did. They disappeared for a while, but now they're back. Smoking. Eating icecream. Bottles and bottles of water. Not speaking.