Pink

I was in the waiting room.

Someone two seats over

chewing gum like it was

something to do with their mouth

while the time moved slow.

She blew a bubble.

It popped soft against her teeth.

That sound—

I knew that sound.

Parking lot. September.

Someone's jaw working,

the gum stretched pink and thin

between her teeth,

the casual way she kept chewing

while she looked at me.

I wasn't looking away.

She didn't either.

The bubble popped.

The woman in the waiting room

went back to her magazine.

But I was still in the parking lot,

still tasting someone else's mouth,

still that young,

still that stupid,

and the gum kept popping

in my chest.