* This is an older piece that I've reworked significantly for a couple of reasons. First, it had so much spammy comments that I figured I'd be better off just re-posting. More importantly, though, a fellow writer (he knows who he is) gave me a stupendous piece of advice earlier. Here's me trying to follow it.
Rebecca was having that kind of day. When one of the stock room boys referred to her as a 'puma,' she didn't know whether to be insulted at assumption of her age or complemented by his attraction.
She rolled her eyes and shot him a quick smile from behind her register. Rebecca couldn't be pissed at him. And plus, she saw this college kid more than her own boyfriend, Scott. The mall was closing and she asked him if he needed a ride home, but he told her that he was meeting friends at Smitty's Roadhouse.
Needing to get her life out of her head, Rebecca turned on the radio, which, by the way only tuned into three local stations. One was a Jesus freak station and the others were static-ridden AM country or the equally static-fueled FM pop. Needing to get her Duran Duran on, she chose the latter.
Sure enough, that night it exploded and the air was filled with that pungent smell of bleach, acid, ammonia and rotten eggs. Meth - the kind of stench you remember a lifetime later after you die - permeated throughout hills.
As as she drove up County Road 51, she saw remnants of their rented cold water shack blasted all over the front yard and oddly, she felt a liberating sense of relief. She didn't have to worry about Scott anymore.
As Rebecca scooped up her suitcase and threw whatever in it, she took a moment to decide if this was enough to make her leave Appalachia once and for all. Once she gave her statement to the sheriff, Rebecca knew it was.
I hope he's still there, was all she kept thinking.