A desert road

It was California in the summer; Billy Africa had a wide variety of gaudy handmade trinkets on display filling the fabric-covered counter in front of him. The bleached dry wood of his booth sat silently as the sun beat down on the desolate highway that ran off seemingly forever to the horizon in both directions. Heat rose off the concrete, wispy lines of distortion obscured the border of the sky making the desert look like an ocean.
Billy sat in his wooden booth, sweltering, sweat beading on his brow, staining his armpits. It was nearing three pm, the worst part of the day. The sun would soon be setting behind him, blasting in through the open back of his little shelter. On a busier day, he would have left, having made his money earlier. Today though, today was no good, six hours he’d sat in the sun without a single customer.
“You got to know when to hold ‘em, when to fold ‘em” Billy said to himself with a chuckle, catching himself “Laughing at my own jokes and talking to myself, can’t be healthy.” He laughed again.
Billy could hear the engine before he saw the car, before he saw her. The car slowed down in one quick skidding burst, marking the road, burnt rubber filling the air. She was looking intently at all the little wooden booths on both sides before choosing his.