Seaworld

The miles wore on.  The honeymooners were about an hour’s drive to their hotel in Tampa.  More palm trees, more signs with mouse ears; none with a gasoline symbol.  The gas gauge was perilously low. She was oblivious, enjoying the evening breeze through rolled down windows.

The Disney and Seaworld exodus traffic creeped, and rolled to a half hearted halt when the orange warning light blinked on. This is probably what they had in mind when they coined the word clusterfuck, he thought.

“Shit,” he said. 

Bumper to bumper traffic snaked ahead.

“Do you have your AAA card with you?” he asked matter-of-factly.

She, looking over, incredulous: “Wait–I thought you filled the tank this morning!”

“Sweetie, I meant to do it. I went out to Starbucks and decided I could fill it later. I figured there would be plenty of gas stations. This is Orlando, for chrissakes. I’m sorry.” he said penitently. “And I guess this thing doesn’t have a reserve tank, either,” he added.

“Oh, my God,” she sighed, rummaging through her purse. ‘These guys are gonna think, ‘Dumbass tourists!’ “

“Baby, these are the times you gotta support me!” he implored.

“How can I support running out of fuel on the freeway in the middle of Orlando?” came the retort.

They rolled into a gas plaza on fumes, thirty agonizing minutes later. She took a picture of the gas gauge for posterity.