Unleaded

Saw her at the Shell off Route 9.

She didn't look up.

I held a bag of ice to my chest,

plastic sweating through my shirt,

water pooling at my shoes

while she pumped unleaded

with her sunglasses pushed back

like a headband.

Three years since I said it's fine.

Meant it, I thought.

She tore the receipt,

replaced the nozzle,

pulled out in a car I didn't recognize.

I stood there

watching the melt-water

find the drain.

What I forgave

cost me something I still can't name.

Cost her nothing.

Not even recognition.