A Glimpse Of Respect
1361 Words
A Glimpse of Respect
The interstate stretched before her like a ribbon of black glass, unspooling under the midnight sky.
Jasmine hummed along to the radio as her rig rumbled down the empty road. The moon hung low and bright in the windshield, and the hum of the tires was almost soothing.
She didn’t mind nights like this — just her, the engine, and the horizon. No dispatchers breathing down her neck. No yard full of men watching her every move like they expected her to screw up.
Just quiet.
Then her steering wheel jerked hard to the left.
“What the hell—?” she muttered, fighting the pull as she eased off the throttle.
The vibration was unmistakable.
Blowout.
She cursed under her breath and guided the truck onto the shoulder, flipping on her hazards as she brought it to a stop. She killed the engine, grabbed her flashlight, and hopped down into the cool night air.
The left front tire was shredded to ribbons.
“Perfect,” she muttered, kicking the gravel.
It wasn’t the end of the world — she’d changed plenty of tires before — but she hated the thought of eating into her delivery window. Every minute she lost out here was one more excuse for someone back at the yard to say she couldn’t cut it.
She popped the storage hatch, dragged out the jack and the spare, and set to work.
Fifteen minutes in, she heard the sound of another engine approaching.
Headlights bathed her in white.
She straightened and squinted into the glare.
And groaned.
The pickup truck rolled to a stop behind her rig, and Mark climbed out, waving cheerfully.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he called.
“Of course,” she muttered.
He sauntered over, hands in his pockets, surveying the shredded tire. “Blowout, huh? You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Need a hand?”
“Nope.”
“You sure? I can—”
She cut him off with a look. “I said I’ve got it.”
He studied her for a moment, then held up his hands. “All right. Your show.”
He leaned against the side of her trailer and pulled out a flashlight. “At least let me hold the light. You’re gonna twist your neck trying to work in the dark.”
Jasmine hesitated. Then, grudgingly: “Fine.”
He didn’t say anything else. Just stood there quietly, steadying the beam for her as she loosened the last lug nuts and wrestled the spare into place.
When she finally finished and lowered the jack, she wiped her hands on a rag and straightened.
Mark gave her a little nod. “Good work.”
She blinked at him, surprised. No smirk. No lecture. Just… respect.
“Thanks,” she said reluctantly.
He grinned faintly. “Anytime. Jasmine.”
She climbed back into her cab, feeling unsettled.
For the first time, she wasn’t entirely sure she hated him.
New Routes
The next morning, the yard was buzzing when she pulled in.
Something was up.
Dispatchers were huddled over clipboards, radios crackled constantly, and drivers milled around looking irritated.
Jasmine parked and headed inside to clock out when Frank, the shift supervisor, spotted her.
“There she is!” he barked.
She froze.
“Jasmine, good. You’re here,” he said. “Need you to cover a long run — driver called out. Can you leave tonight?”
“What’s the route?” she asked cautiously.
Frank shoved a manifest into her hands.
She scanned it. Chicago to Phoenix. Three days, tight delivery window. Refrigerated goods.
“That’s a two-driver run,” she pointed out.
Frank was already nodding. “Yep. You’ll be with Mark.”
She stiffened.
“No,” she said flatly.
Frank frowned. “You don’t have a choice. That load’s gotta move. You’re the best we’ve got on short notice.”
“I’ll go solo,” she offered.
“Not possible,” Frank said. “Freight company requires two drivers for perishables. Insurance.”
Jasmine ground her teeth.
Mark appeared in the doorway just then, like some horrible punchline. He glanced between her and Frank, then grinned.
“Well, this should be fun,” he said.
Jasmine glared at him.
Frank clapped her on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. You’re professionals. Truck’s fueled and waiting in bay four. You leave at seven.”
Then he walked away.
Jasmine turned to Mark, who was still smiling.
“Don’t get comfortable,” she warned. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
His grin widened. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
On the Road Again
By seven that evening, the truck was loaded and ready.
Jasmine stowed her duffel bag in the sleeper compartment and climbed into the driver’s seat. Mark tossed his own bag in after hers and plopped into the passenger seat.
“Shotgun,” he announced.
“You’re not funny,” she muttered, adjusting the mirrors.
“I’m hilarious,” he said. “You’re just cranky.”
She ignored him and started the engine. The truck rumbled to life beneath them, and she eased it out of the bay.
The yard fell away behind them as they merged onto the highway.
The cab was quiet except for the drone of the tires.
After a few minutes, Mark shifted in his seat.
“So. You always this cheerful on the road?”
She shot him a sidelong glance. “You always this annoying?”
He chuckled.
They drove in silence for another hour before he spoke again.
“You ever done this route before?”
“Twice,” she said.
“Good,” he replied. “Guess you’re driving the first leg, then.”
“Guess I am,” she said.
They made their first stop at a truck plaza just outside St. Louis to refuel and grab some food.
Jasmine ordered a black coffee and a sandwich. Mark got a burger and fries.
They sat at a booth by the window, and for a while neither of them said much.
Then Mark leaned back and studied her.
“You really hate me, don’t you?” he asked.
She looked up, startled.
“I don’t hate you,” she said finally. “I just don’t like you.”
He grinned. “Ah. Subtle difference.”
She rolled her eyes.
Mark leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You know, I’m not trying to insult you. Or make you look bad. I just… grew up thinking you’re supposed to watch out for your crew.”
“This isn’t a crew,” she said. “This is me. My truck. My job.”
“You ever think maybe it doesn’t have to be just you?” he asked quietly.
She frowned.
“I don’t need anyone else,” she said.
Mark didn’t argue.
He just picked up his burger and took another bite.
Midnight Confessions
They drove through the night, switching at dawn so Mark could take the wheel.
Jasmine crawled into the sleeper, exhausted, but couldn’t sleep.
The hum of the road and the steady rhythm of the engine lulled her into a kind of half-dream.
She thought about the first time she’d ever sat in a big rig, years ago. How nervous she’d been. How determined she’d felt when her instructor told her she’d never make it.
How hard she’d fought for every mile.
And how much she hated the idea of needing anyone now.
Sometime in the early morning, she drifted off.
When she woke hours later, the truck was parked at a rest area. Mark was outside, leaning against the grill, sipping a soda.
She climbed down and joined him.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“New Mexico,” he said. “Still on schedule.”
She nodded.
They stood there in silence for a while, watching the sunrise paint the desert pink and gold.
Mark glanced at her. “You know,” he said, “you don’t have to prove anything to me. Or anyone.”
Jasmine looked away.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she said softly.
- Writer
