"You don’t."
Rude.
Accurate.
Still rude.
"I’ve parked in tighter spaces," I inform him.
"Not in a storm like this."
Then I notice the wind shifting again. It’s colder. Early May in Montana, ladies and gentlemen. Where I’m learning spring is a rumor and winter never actually leaves.
"It’s not supposed to stick," I say weakly.
He looks up at the sky.
"It will."
He says it with the kind of certainty that suggests he and the weather are on speaking terms.
Another gust hits the side of the truck, rocking it slightly.
Okay. Maybe assistance is not a personal failure.
"Fine," I sigh and climb back into my food truck.
He steps back, hands in his jacket pockets.
"Two feet left."
I adjust.
"Straight."
Adjust.
"Easy..."
The truck inches forward.
"Stop."
I stop.
He walks back to my window.
"Good job."
Relief floods through me in a very unprofessional way.
"See? Nailed it."
"You almost took out the planter."
"It was a gentle nudge."
"It’s been there since 1948."
