Semis lined up. Smells of diesel and gasoline. The hum of big rigs. Motors going past midnight. Women in tight sweaters and short skirts travel from truck to truck. Some looking for a buck or two while others ask for a ride heading east or west. Some have visions of New York, and then there are those with hearts set on Hollywood. They want to be movie stars. But not Meg. She had dreams of being a Rockette. Her mother took her to see the high kicking ladies when she was a sixth grader; that’s when her dream started.

The young girl practiced kicks in front of a mirror every night in her room. She’d extend both arms as if around another dancer’s shoulders and kick until she could kick no more. Truth is, she could barely raise her legs in the air. But that did not stop the five foot one inch girl from wanting to pursue her dream. A dream that was her mother’s as well.

I wanted to be a Rockette,her mom told her when drinking in the afternoon.  But I met your father, and the next thing you know, you were born, mom said in anger. I take the blame for it. No one’s fault but mine, she cried, pouring another glass of cheap red. No one’s fault but mine.

Meg sat in the diner of the truck stop. Remembered the words her momma said. Go fetch your dream, mom told her before she left. Go fetch your dream.

Alone. Broke. Waiting for a miracle at the edge of town. Waiting for a ride to take her away. And that’s when he sat down beside her at the counter. A tall, skinny man much older. Old enough to have spawned her. 

My name’s Ben. You want a cup of coffee?