Gravitational Drag

The store is a low-level spaceship in a starless lot. The sparsely parked cars have leagues of loneliness between them. No one comes or goes they merely slipstream through a personal invisibility. Beyond the gliding glow of glass doors the anchorless roam between the high stacked and glitter wrapped. Anyone that matters in the daylight is not here, Then he sees her, moons slung from each ear, she with the dragon tattoo arm sleeve, her small, half-cupped breasts daring anyone to be kind. He wants to be near to her, yet he only an itinerant broker of bad news. The few that are here will leave separately to tunnel into more makeshift hours, and he must drive far enough away to be a distance from himself.