“Do you want to stop for water? A bathroom break?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
The old pickup truck trundled down the highway as the first rest station they’d seen for fifty miles loomed ahead. Ahead, a long stretch of road, with nothing but rock and cactus and some pathetic fencing trying to keep god knows what out, or in.
“I think I need to stretch my legs, anyway. Gonna pull over.”
The rest stop was deserted. A monument to another time, when driving was a religion with millions of devotees. Old benches, weathered but still strong, built a long time ago when America built things like this. To last.
I heard the big metal door creak open and closed as you went inside, and sounds of water running while you go about your business. It’s wasn't a big rest stop, but I kicked around a bit, checking to see what all was there.
A couple water fountains, encased in stone. Some picnic tables. An old but mostly accurate sign with a foggy acrylic pane featuring a map and some historical notes about the area. Pretty standard fare.
You came out, squinting into the sunlight and quickly raised your hand to shade your eyes. Then smiled broadly when you saw me standing by the sign.
I nodded, in a noncommittal way. But inside my heart was beating fast. That was the moment I knew you loved me.