Hush.

7::Incendiary

“What do you think of love, Annie?”

Polly's sudden question caused me to choke on my drink. We were on break in the back room, feet up and reading magazines, talking. I swiped my wrist over my mouth. “Excuse me?”

She rolled her eyes in my reaction. “Love. Come on, you can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it before.”

Pursing my lips, I began tapping my foot to an invisible rhythm. “What about it?”

“I don’t know . . . just, what do you think, I guess? In general?”

I shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Really?”

I swallowed another sip of my lemonade. “Yeah. Why? What do you think about it?”

Polly sighed wistfully, lips curling up with a dreamy-like quality. “I think it’s beautiful,” she murmured. “In any form.”

I couldn’t help but scoff at her words, reflecting on my own life. Love? What the hell did I know about love?

From my experience, love was a father running from what he couldn’t handle, what he didn’t understand.

Love was a woman falling into her own trap, hell-bent on destroying herself.

Love was watching her daughter crumble a little bit each day, waiting for the moment she shattered.

Love was skewed.

“I don’t think I like it very much,” I amended my earlier words. “Too much of a fantastical quality to it.”

“Annie,” Polly moaned, lips pursing in a childish pout. “You’re such a Debbie Downer. Something’s got to keep you going, right? Something waiting for you beyond Hoover’s, a dream to reach?”

I thought about her words, the magazine in my hands drifting closed. A dream? I didn’t have time to dream. I hardly had enough time to sleep.

“I don’t know,” I whispered, voice holding a fragility to it. One of fear, directed inward. What was I working toward? I loved to write, I loved journalism. I knew nothing else. I spent so much time each day just trying to survive, trying to make life as painless as possible.

Judging by the look on my friend’s face, I might as well have announced I was about to assassinate the President. She set aside her glass of wine and scooted toward me in her chair. “You . . . you what?”

I picked at the stupid sequins of my dress. I hated them. They always fell off when I moved, and made me feel like a walking disco ball. “I’m not sure if there’s anything waiting for me beyond Hoover’s.”

Polly stuttered for a few moments, grasping for possible beginnings. “Well—I—of course there’s something waiting for you! Hoover’s isn’t where souls go to die. It’s more of a half-way house, you know? A rest stop for greater things. And you have so much potential, Annie.”

My lips pressed together in a thin line. I tasted the coating of cherry lip gloss. “Thanks.”

The gratitude was hollow. I didn’t feel like I had potential. I didn’t feel much, anymore, besides exhaustion, and confusion, and loss.

God, I was so lost.

She drummed her long fingernails against the counter, staring thoughtfully at me. Then, abruptly, she jumped to her feet, planting her hands on her hips. “I want to show you something.”

I groaned. “Ugh, don’t make me go back out there, I’m on break.”

“Me, too. But don’t worry, we aren’t going out onto the floor. I just want to show you somebody.”