lmao guess who’s several prompts behind it’s me. this prompt was “shitty gift shop souvenirs” so here’s a story about young adults and the liminal spaces that are gas stations at three am
The best part of road trips, hands down, is the utterly bizarre rest stops and tourist traps that litter the highway. Her favorite was one that the two of you had stumbled upon fall break sophomore year. There was a chill in the air (finally) and the leaves were just starting to turn (finally) and you were overcome with the worst case of restlessness. All you could do the first day was pace, back and forth and back trying to get the itch out of your feet. When it didn’t work, she grabbed her keys and shoved you towards your closet with instructions to pack a few changes of clothes and meet her outside.
The night was perfect: stars winking down, no ghastly cicadas screaming. (“I just don’t get why you hate them so much,” she’d said, not long after you’d met. “Simple. If I’m not allowed to scream all summer, neither are they.”) You slung your bag into the backseat and hopped up into the ridiculously high bed of the truck.
“Put this on,” she said, tossing a sweater of hers at you. “It’s too nice to have the windows up but once we get going you’ll freeze.”
“Do I get to know where we’re going?” you asked as you pulled it on. It was soft to a degree that you’d yet to achieve, no matter how often you switched detergent, and it smelled like her.
“Nope. I don’t either, if it makes you feel better. We’re going to flip a coin whenever we need to make a turn.”
“That’s like zero variables though! Let me get a die. D6? D12? D20?”
“Get your gaming ass out of my car right now.” A beat. “D6 would probably be best.”
After some squabbling over assigning actions to numbers, you were on your way down the highway. The coin flip had been in her favor, so you’d listened to classic rock and old school country as you hurtled down the interstate. This late, nothing is really open, so you’d decided to drive until something interesting shows up and hang around.
You must’ve fallen asleep because next thing you knew, the truck is stopped and she was pumping gas. When you sat up from your slump, she poked her head in the open window and said, “Hey, sleepyhead. Want to go in and grab snacks?”
Interstate gas stations at three am aren’t real places. The music is in an impossible key, the patrons are shifty in a way that calls to mind other universes, and the prices are inexplicably lower than daytime. You were idly scanning the racks of souvenirs as you waited in line with snacks (plain corn chips and twizzlers for her, doritos and gummy worms for you, and water to share) when something caught your eye. It was a t-shirt with a smiling cartoon cow with the phrase “HOME IS WHERE THE COWS CALL YOU BY NAME” emblazoned on it in a font you aren’t sure should exist in your world. Obviously you’d had to step out of line and grab two, one in your size and one in hers.
When you’d presented her with the shirt, her face had split with the biggest grin and she’d thrown her arms around your neck. You’d changed immediately and worn those ridiculous cartoon cows for the rest of the trip.
Sometimes, when you know she’s feeling particularly overcome by ennui, you’ll make some shitty joke about talking cows, just to see her smile. Sometimes, when she knows you’re on the verge of something indescribable driven by frustration, she’ll do the same.