Jessica's Boobs

I can’t stop thinking about Jessica’s boobs.

Not in that way.

I’m not a lesbian.
I’m not attracted to her.

She’s my coworker.

We complain together.
About people who reply all to emails.
About meetings that should have been emails.
We tell each other secrets.
Gossip, mostly.

Four weird spots.
Masses on an MRI.

Her appointment was Friday.
Results Tuesday.

Friday evening was our annual
back to school party.

Jessica didn’t come.

Saturday, I drank and danced and laughed.
Jessica didn’t.

Sunday, I cleaned, slept, worked out.
Jessica didn’t.

It’s Wednesday.

She comes into my office.

“It’s cancer.
Don’t tell anyone.”

Then:
“I’m going to get brand-new tits.”

Well.

There are worse things
to have on the agenda.

We discuss boob jobs.

The good ones.
The bad ones.
Ones that have been
approved by committee.

Porn-star tits.

We both want those.

Firm.
Perky.
Up where God intended them.

Then she says,
“My mom died of breast cancer at forty-six.”

Jessica is crying.

“I don’t know what to tell my kids.”

I give her a sideways hug
because I don’t know what to tell her. 

I am thinking:
I just wrote a poem about loss and dying.
I do not want to write another one.

So I say,
“You’re having it removed.
You’ll be okay.”

I say it like it’s a fact.

I need it to be. 

She wipes her face.

“We need to make sure we have permission slips
for every student who bought a ticket.”

Back to business.

She is the senior class advisor.

There is a field trip to Wake Island
on August 20.

There are permission slips.
There are waivers.
Buses to be filled.

I tell her about the terrible update to the ID card system.

She listens.

Jessica is getting new boobs.