I'm casually browsing the aisles, freshly relieved after having just left the pinnacle of interstate bathrooms. I espy you gliding over to the sandwich kiosk, deftly dodging around sprinting children and parents sporting bovine stares, their arms filled with overpriced schlock.
You, a Buc-ees pro, are not startled by the announcement of there being "fresh brisket on the board." I'm pleased by this. A slow and warm feeling courses through my body. I know now you are a woman of culture, self-assured, confident of your place in the world of oversized gas stations.
I move closer. You tentatively place a hand on a chicken sandwich. I recoil. Everything I thought I knew about you starts to unravel. But, you change your mind and continue your search.
I ignore the pleas of the roasted pecan vendor, painstakingly avoid grabbing a box of fudge, and finally make my way over to you as you pick up a brisket sandwich. I grab a pulled pork.
"You know your meat," I remark, ever so crudely.
You heft the sandwich, judging if it has what it takes to sate you appetite, look at what I've picked up, and then stare into my eyes. "Pulled pork? Is yours tenderized enough?"
Your tone is playful, whimsical, and bold. My mouth drops opens. You start to walk away and then turn around. "You just going to stand there or are you coming with me? I want someone to watch the parking lot grackles with while I eat."
I manage to recover myself. "Sure, just let me get some beaver nuggets."
You wave me off. "You won't need them. I've got all the beaver nuggets you'll need."
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