Anna Pollock

“We don’t talk about that night or that weekend. We don’t bring up the accident, even though my bruising is changing colors by the day and our co-workers ask questions about it. Jesse tells me to take time off. I refuse, even though my gut is in knots most mornings. The ache doesn’t go away whenever I bump into her in the fluorescent-lit kitchen, but now it’s different. Instead of constantly convincing myself of lingering glances or smiles that mean something, I take it for what it is. Maeve is friendly and is treating me like a colleague, like a co-worker, like a friend. It doesn’t matter that I know her favorite Chinese food, or what her hair looks like in the morning, or that she hates the self-checkout lane at Target. Where does all of this information go? With Lacie, I don’t have access to these databases anymore. I know she got her hair done every six weeks. I remember her liking the color pink. Is that it? She had a brother, but fuck. I can’t even remember his name now. Shane? Is this what will happen with Maeve? For the first time in my life, I want to start journaling. The thought comes as quickly as it goes.”
― Anna Pollock, Pit and a Peach