The truck, orange from rust, wheezed to a stop next to the gas pump. Inside, Cliff switched off the ignition and sat, rummaging through the contents of the bag next to him. After retrieving his wallet, he stepped outside the truck to stretch and take in his surroundings.
Glancing down the road in the direction he had come from, there was nothing to see. The air was brown and hazy from the dust and dirt that baked in the midday sun. Flatness expanded to both sides of the road, stretching as far as Cliff could see, only saved by the dotting of a cactus here and there. The direction he was heading yielded no better view.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Cliff brought the truck door shut with a groan, and made towards the station. His walk was ambling, as if he had no where to go and all the time to get there. The plaid over shirt flapped against Cliffs wiry frame in the wind as he ducked into the shadow cast by the building. His long, crooked nose was the first to enter the building, and his long legs brought him to the counter.
Cliff looked upon the attendant from the dark, sunken eyes that nestled underneath the bushy eyebrows that lined his face. His mouth, twisting as it does when he speaks, offered a good day and requested a full tank of gas.