Unrequited

Katie’s ribs pressed against her skin, the sharp angles of a body once soft. She lifted her blouse, let me see— the stubs, the little bumps, two perfect incisions smooth as marble. I swallowed. Physically lubricious—I couldn’t do it. Her perfume fought the chemo stench. Coiffed mascara, a careful face, a practiced smile, teeth too straight. She asked if I still wrote poetry. I said nothing. Once, she stretched across the hood of my car, blonde roots peeking through red box dye, sipping melted ice from a gas station cup, her freckles a map I traced in secret. She could talk for hours, a queen without a kingdom. She whispered after the hysterectomy, baby gravy’s got nowhere to go. No need for rubber— I trust you. I left the room, shame humming in my jaw, the sound of her voice stuck in my teeth. Later, I cried.