Grace pulled into the convenience store lot and turned off the ignition. It was only May, but the mercury practically burst out of the thermometer. The burgeoning art historian dreaded August already. She, nostalgic for J.M.W. paintings and Victorian impressionism, was not fond of the future. Southern summers were brutal enough without threats of global warming. The only solution for her desperate ennui: buy a slurpee.

With a $1.89 beverage on her mind, Grace hopped out of the car carrying a Tinkerbell shaped coin purse.

“Hey,” a hobo lingering outside of the store muttered. The girl’s hand had just touched the door.

Grace smiled politely and said, “Morning. Can I get you a soda, maybe a sandwich?”

“Naw, honey. I need money. Money only.”

Grace nodded and, protective of her coins, walked into the store. Five or six teenagers hovered over the neon-colored ice cream bin, rummaging through over-priced frozen treats. A gray-haired man in a wheelchair perused the fruit juices. The cashier, afflicted with the sniffles, thumbed through a special edition tabloid.

“Can I help you?” the cashier asked, without looking up from grainy photos of Brittany Spears and Jennifer Aniston. It was only then that Grace realized she had paused long enough at the front of the store to catch attention.

Grace broke out of her stare and shook her head. “No, thanks. I know exactly what I want.”

The cashier didn’t reply. Instead, he flipped the page and gaped.

A few seconds later, Grace was at the back of the store, pulling a clean cup off of the stack next to the slurpee machine. She pushed the machine’s button for strawberry, but nothing came out. 

“Hey!” A gruff voice croaked from above like some angry angel in the heavens. Grace, frowning thanks to her empty cup, looked up. 

A lump of a man, covered in black grease and icy slurpee clumps, was perched on top of the machine next to a blue tool bag. He wore a big patch of the dyed ice over his left eye.

“Oh, sorry!” Grace gasped, realizing that pressing the button must have splattered slurpee gunk all over the man. “I didn’t see you. How—what—”

“I’m trying to fix the machine here.”

“It was an accident.”

The man threw a wrench down on the machine as he scoffed, “God, how many times have I heard that before?”

“Really, it—”

“How many other accidents have you made? How many other accidents do you plan to make?”

Grace gulped, responding only with silence. Maybe it hadn’t been a strawberry slurpee day, after all.

“How old are you, girl?”

“I just turned twenty.”

“Twenty.” The repairman mulled over the word. He tossed a screwdriver up into the air and caught it before demanding, “What are you doing with your life?”

“I…I’m studying art history at—”

“An art student, eh? Huh, I was an art student, too.”

Grace loosened up her shoulders. “Really? Here? I mean down at—”

“Yep. And look at me—fixing slurpee machines at 7-Eleven in the same town where I grew up. Lived in New York for five years after I graduated but then I came right back.”

“It’s a creative endeavor, I guess. Fixing the machine, that is.”

“Not really. All I ever have to do is connect the red wire to the blue wire. See, it’s just hard to get a hold of the blue wire. Somehow it always manages to drown in excess slurpee down in the machine. You should take a look at all the rainbow slush pools up here sometime.” The man licked some of the ice off of his fingers and then wiped his hands on his janitorial pants. “Who’s your favorite artist?”

Grace jumped, slightly startled. “Romare Bearden, I guess.”

“Oh, a collage girl, eh? What do you like about Bearden’s work?”

“The colors, the ambiance, the historical documentation…” her voice trailed off. She was so thirsty.

“I always preferred film.”

“When you asked favorite artist, I thought you meant—“

“Possessing passion defines an artist, girl, not his medium. The passionate bicyclist is more of an artist than the passionless painter.”

“Doesn’t creation factor in, too, though?”

“Does the bicyclist create?”

Grace blinked. Part of her still craved that slurpee, and part of her wanted to climb on top of the machine to swish her fingers in the slurpee pools, but the other part of her hankered to hear the repairman continue his point. “If he does, I’m not sure what.”

“The bicyclist creates ripples in the air, like the illustrator creates ripples in his imaginary pond.”

“That’s…poetic.” Grace found herself playing with the empty slurpee cup, crunching it inward and then popping it back into its original shape.

“No,” the repairman murmured, “It’s not poetry, it’s fact.” He dunked back into the machine. “Stupid wire!”

“Can’t you replace the wire?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if it’s always falling and getting lost…”

“Would you replace the Mona Lisa?”

“A slurpee machine wire and the Mona Lisa—“

The repairman chuckled. “I’m just teasing you, girl. I always thought the Mona Lisa was overrated.”

“Why?”

“Who cares what she’s smiling about?”

Grace’s own face cracked into a smile. “Millions care.”

“They only say they do to try and sound sophisticated. And for those who actually care, well…that just seems like the most trivial reason for a painting to capture you—wondering why the subject’s smiling.”

Grace shrugged. “I dunno. I don’t try to understand why other people gravitate towards certain pieces of artwork.” She breathed in very deeply after saying that and melted a little at the scent of strawberry slurpee imbuing the still store air.

“But you’re an art history major. Don’t you want to become a critic?”

“Maybe. But if I become a critic, I only have to understand why I like a piece. For instance, everyone else I know hates your strawberry slurpees—apparently they taste like sugary cat vomit—b-but I love them. I could write an entire essay about why I love them. It’s enough that I understand my own taste.”

There was a silence after that. Grace stood in place, fiddling with the cup and occasionally touching her hair. Meanwhile, the repairman continued his task. 

Finally, the repairman fished out the blue wire. “Aha!” Covered in chunks of slurpee, the wire was barely recognizable as blue. Only the occasional naked spot revealed its true color.

“You got it,” Grace whispered, “Like in a dream.”

“What did you say?”

“I asked what kind of art you studied in school. Film?”

“Yeah, film. My professors said I was the next Stan Brakhage. Thing was, I hated Brakhage’s work.” The repairman proceeded to shut the machine’s lid. It came down with a heavy clank. “What do you consider the elements of a good film?”

“Um, I’m huge on narrative and strong acting, actually. I guess I should be more interested in cinematography, but…” Grace took an ambivalent step toward the machine.

“No, no,” the repairman exclaimed, “Allow me.” He clambered down the ladder and snatched the cup from Grace’s pale hands. “You’re honest.”

The repairman held down the button, causing the machine to gurgle like a two-ton baby. Sludge oozed out of the nozzle and plopped into the cup. Already Grace could taste the pink sucrose. Her solution to the freak weather had arrived in a 7-Eleven.

When the repairman handed Grace the slurpee, he locked eyes with her. Grace noticed how extraordinarily average looking the man appeared in every respect but the flicker in his pupils. Then the repairman declared, “Art is the most passionate orgy within man's grasp. John Donne.”

At this point, Grace had touched her lips to the straw but quickly recoiled. 

“It’s cherry, isn’t it?” The repairman asked.

“I-I dunno.”

The repairman sniffed the slurpee and cursed. “Ugh. Now I either have to switch the labels on the machine or refill the tub.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, dear, you’ll be sorry twenty years from now when your dream deferred explodes.” He dumped the slurpee and re-filled it with strawberry. The ice crashed like breaking glass against the grates in the machine drain. Grace took the cup from the repairman, her face long. “It’s on me, girl.”

“Thank you. Good-bye.” She scurried past the salsa display, the table piled high with fresh-baked cookies, and the bin full of clearance batteries until she had left the convenience store. Her legs felt longer and faster than usual.

A second later, Grace sat in her car, gazing at the windshield. Insect carcasses and unidentifiable splatters caked the glass. A thin crack veined the windshield in almost a perfect diagonal line from one corner to the other. 

“I won’t let my dreams explode,” she said. Grace switched on the radio and popped the slurpee straw back into the mouth, filling the air with small, fervent sucking sounds.

Suddenly, a hobo knocked on the car window. Grace instinctively pushed the slurpee toward him, waited for him to accept it, and then pulled out of the lot. Southern summers were brutal enough without threats of convenience store repairmen.