Sleepily, she slips in her debit card, punches in her zip code and hits enter. Then she looks down to select super-premium or sort-of-super premium or whatever the heck the hundred bucks a gallon gas her BMW demands is called, but she can’t find it.
Hmm. That’s weird.
She lifts the bright green handle. Maybe the super-premium or sort-of-super premium is underneath it? It’s not. She looks around. None of the other drivers out in the early morning drizzle appear to be having trouble with their pumps.
Maybe this one only has one kind? she wonders and then looks – really looks – at the bright green sign with the white writing and it registers. Oh dear God, it’s DIESEL! She grabs the nozzle that she’s thisclose to plunging into her gas tank, shoves it back into place on the pump, replaces her gas cap, and slinks into her car wondering if anyone’s been watching her stupidity.
And then she drives off, vowing from then on to get coffee before getting gas. Because clearly she’s incapable of doing one without the other.
BASED ON A TRUE STORY. THAT HAPPENED TO A FRIEND. AND SHE WANTED ME TO SHARE IT. NICE OF HER, HUH?