Nirvana

I pull the car into your grandpa’s antique filling station, last bastion of civilization in the badlands of western Oklahoma. Horny-toad weather is begging me for some air conditioning.

After a fill-up, I hear the siren call of the Dr. Pepper machine. Just a quarter, prices from the last century, too. It dispenses twelve-ounce glass deposit bottles, something I had been sure was gone from the world forever.

Cold and wet explode against the back of my throat at the perfect temperature, and my knees buckle. That joyous hallelujah moment; my body has only rarely been so pleased with me.

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100 words. In response to this week’s Velvet Verbosity prompt: “Reverence.”

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