He’s oblivious to my presence. Fine by me.

This particular specimen is in his twenties. His skin sits tight on his body, inked all over with tattoos. I see a scorpion, a knife and fork, a diamond ring. It’s like his body is the page he’s been doodling on while on hold to the electricity company. An upward trail of butterflies, a switchblade, a donut. The artistry is lovely. This is a guy who took a lot of care getting trivial, unrelated things printed all over himself.

Nothing’s been colored in, and I want to unzip my pencil case and get to work. I’d start on that big unfurled rose on the back of his arm. Actually, I think I’d use a pink lipstick. The slanted tip would be just the right size for the petals, each the size of a woman’s kiss.

He turns his head, feeling my eyes like an animal would, but he doesn’t look back at me. I stare at the concrete until he resettles. I put my hand on my neck; I can feel my heartbeat. This is an interesting development: My body knows it’s twenty-five.

Melanie told me to take a chance and smile at a guy. I look down at myself. Mom told me once that I have nice calves and my reflection in the car’s window is perfectly fine, maybe even pretty when I soften my face.

Imagine being a guy. How would it feel to sit on a neat butt that doesn’t spread out like a hen when you sit? If I was turned into a man for a day, I’d spend the first hour carrying around hay bales, making myself sweat. Then I’d muster the courage to unzip my pants to make a decision on whether seeing a penis is a worthwhile priority moving forward. As the minutes tick on, the Rolls-Royce guzzles and he continues to sit motionless. I can’t see a second helmet. He does have a very full backpack. I worry for that zipper.

I lock the car. Then I check each individual door. I say under my breath: “I locked the car doors.” I mostly believe myself as I walk inside to pay.

As I’m deliberating over what soft-looking chocolate bars I’ll get for Renata, my ears tune in to the gas station clerk’s hushed telephone conversation. “He’s going to steal it.”

I rush to the window to check the car, but Tattoo Guy’s sitting where I left him. I lay my purchases on the counter.

The clerk says into the phone, “It’s been more than ten minutes. He’s filled his bike, can’t pay for it, and he’s deciding what to do.” He begins scanning my items and mouths my total at me. “Yeah. As soon as he touches the ignition, I’m calling the cops.”

I look through the dusty windows. It’s evident from the set of this guy’s shoulders and the stark deliberation on his face that he is sitting inside a terrible moment. I was oblivious as I admired his butt. Then I suspected him of theft. Is it true that he has no money? I was in a similar situation once. I was only a few weeks out of home and my card kept getting declined. My neck was hot from bottling up the tears. A motherly type paid for me and disappeared into the night. All she’d said was, Pay it forward.

Time to settle my karmic debt. “I’ll pay for him. How much?” I dig out my special hundred-dollar bill.

The clerk hangs up the phone. “Twenty dollars. Aren’t you nice?” The way he says it doesn’t make me feel that nice.

I’m almost back to the car door when the clerk says over the loudspeaker: “Pump number two, please thank your Good Samaritan. Your gas has been paid for and you can leave.”

We are the only customers. So much for me just melting away into the night. I give it a try anyway. Tattoo Guy says behind me, “Ma’am, thank you so much.”

“No problem.” I fumble with the car keys and drop things. “Don’t mention it.”

“You’ve just saved my ass— I mean, my butt. I’m having the worst day ever.” He’s closer behind me when he adds, “I left my wallet somewhere, but I always find it. The world’s full of Good Samaritans, just like you. If you give me your details, I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

“Not necessary,” I say, but now he’s right behind me. I smell the cotton on his body when a breeze blows through it. When I look down at my loafers, there’s big inked hands picking up my dropped groceries.

No way am I going to say Pay it forward. Men probably think that’s girlie nonsense. But I’ll try to have an exciting story to tell Melanie. I turn on the balls of my feet.

“Here you go,” he says when all the chocolate is gathered up. When he straightens to full height, he’s obviously surprised. After a beat, he lets out a big joyful howl. Up at the sky, he yells at full volume, “Oh my God, you look absolutely amazing!”

Did Melanie pay a gorgeous local actor to perk me up?

“Oh shit, too good. You got me.” When I don’t reply, he continues, “I can tell you, from the back, you’ve absolutely nailed it.” His smile is white and lovely as he drags his hair back. “I love costume parties. Can I come?” His slender-muscly body shakes from laughing. It’s a full-body workout. He’s standing so close, for a moment I don’t process the words. Then I feel the slice.

“Excuse me?”

He is staring at my chest with open appreciation. The glasses that I wear for computer work are still hanging from a chain around my neck. “Perfect,” he says reverently before dissolving into laughter again. “Are you going as one of the Golden Girls?”

“No—”

“You just need a string of pearls and a walking stick. Look at those granny shoes.” He says it like a fond scold and taps my toe with his. “You’ve even got the old-person car to match. You’ve thought of everything.” He wipes a tear from his eye. “You look like Tweety Bird’s granny.”

“You don’t need to be rude.” The prim words are out of my mouth before it occurs to me that I should just say, Sure, I’m headed to a big party, I hope my costume wins.

I don’t think I’ve helped someone who really needs it. Tattoos are expensive and he’s covered himself in a fortune. His unusual biker-guy jeans have a lot of seams and diagonal lines, the result of skilled craftsmanship. My thrift-store eyes spot a tiny logo on his pocket: BALMAIN. Very, very pricey.

He’s noticed my attention and the corner of his mouth lifts in a mischievous way. “So how old are you? Are you an eighty-year-old with a facelift?”

“How old I am is none of your business.” The words I’ve ached to say to all the residents at Providence, and I blurt them in the face of a tattooed guy with a motorbike? “I paid for your gas because I thought you were in trouble. But I can see you don’t really need it.”

“I was just psyching myself up to call my dad.” This guy scratches his jaw and I can’t read the word printed across the knuckles. “I try to fuck up during business hours, so I can speak to his assistant instead. Less of a lecture that way.”

“I’ll give you my PayPal address. You can pay me back and I’ll find someone who actually needs the money.” I can’t write on the Parlonis’ receipt. I have one of Sylvia’s business cards in my pocket. I cross out her email and write mine. The gas station attendant gives me a grinning thumbs-up and I burn red with humiliation.

He studies the business card I put into his palm. “A retirement villa?” His eyes spark. The irises are mixed colors— familiar, but I don’t know what they remind me of. He is holding a new laugh in. “What’s going on with you, anyway?” I cram myself into the car and lock it. “Wait, wait,” the guy shouts. Now his I’m sorry is muted and far away. I’m sorry too. Funny how fast a good deed can turn bad in the outside world, like time-lapse footage of rotting fruit.