Twice now, it’s happened. And within a year. I can’t believe it. How many times, in thrity plus years of driving have I filled the gas tank? Thousands? How many times have I forgotten to replace the gas cap? Maybe twice. Until this year. And now I’ve twice forgotten. Why? Men.
A few months ago, it was a really cute guy in the convenience store. He was inside working the register, and I was pumping gas, staring through the plate glass. A little too much. And I drove off, leaving the gas cap on top of the pump.
Yesterday, I filled up at the cheapy gas station across from work ($2.67/gallon). He was at the pump next to mine. He was way beyond cute; he was hot. Very. I lost my concentration. He spoke. Even though he finished filling the tank of his nice, big, red pickup and left before I finished, I was still distracted. Nothing happened, no real flirting even. I sure he was straight. But I left my gas cap on the roof of the car.
Twice. In one year. Men. I’m not exactly complaining, mind you.