her tongue throughout the releasing procedure until we are in front of the judicial building.
“Oh. My. God, Molly! Trina told me, but Oh. My. God!” She punctuates her words with dramatic inflection, causing people scurrying past to stop and stare. Lesson one: big boobs, when positioned correctly, make men, women, and even children stare. And Denise’s hysterics are adding to the problem.
“Would you shut up already?” I stage whisper. “Get a grip, Denise. You’ve got a pair of your own, you know.” Grabbing her arm, I drag her down the sidewalk toward Lilly’s Cafe, our favorite postjail eatery. A cold wind blows up the street from Elliott Bay. I wish I’d overcome my embarrassment with Dad and grabbed a coat.
“Not like those!” She is delighted. “It’s so totally, totally un-Molly.”
“And so totally not what I wanted. Can we please talk about something else? Like, how you landed in the hoosegow?”
“I gotta tell ya, sis, they look good. You are the last person in the world I would have thought about having implants. Of course, from a feminist perspective, it is wrong in so many, many ways, but, what the hell, they look awesome.”
“Why, thank you. I just love talking about my breast implants while walking down a crowded city sidewalk.”
“You don’t have to be such a grouch.” She manages to keep her trap shut for a mere five feet before bursting out, “Will they, like, ever sag? Will you be this eighty-year-old, totally wrinkly woman with completely perky breasts?”
“Yes, I will be the eighty-year-old woman with completely perky breasts with the asinine seventy-eight-year old sister, no doubt still peppering me with inane questions.”
“That’s awesome!” she gasps.
“I’m kidding. They’re coming out in six weeks and four days.”
Denise shakes her head, running to keep up with me. “What a shame. You remind me of a Jeff Koons painting.” We’re at a stoplight.
“Who’s Jeff Koons?” I don’t really want to hear the answer, but Denise has an infectious enthusiasm that sucks me in every time.
“He’s this totally awesome artist who does these really over-the-top, Vargas-style women with really big, really big . . .” There is a crowd of people surrounding us waiting for the light to change. Denise holds her hands out in front of her chest. “You know, well-endowed women busting out of their shirts.” Our fellow pedestrians eye Denise with interest.
“Sounds very classy,” I say and sigh.
“He’s shown in museums all over the world. He was married to a famous Hungarian porn star, but they broke up.”
“Shame.” I punch the stupid crossing button. This has to be the longest light in the world.
“Yeah, she had huge implants.” Denise holds her hands over her breasts again. “Enormous. What was her name? Chicci-something; she was a member of the Italian parliament for five years.”
The light changes. Nobody walks. They’re too busy gawking at Denise. I take the initiative, crossing the street. Is it my imagination, or are a handful of people keeping pace with us?
I have to admit, we make quite a pair. I’m in a revealing shirt. Denise sports a tight black miniskirt, neon purple tights, clunky black shoes, and a jacket that looks like six crows flew into a jet engine. She made it last year using a cardigan, four bags of feathers, and a glue gun.
“Could we please talk about something else besides porn stars and breast implants?” I hiss. “I haven’t even had a cup of coffee.” It’s fine when it’s between me and my mirror, but listening to my hyperactive little sister yammer on about implants makes me feel like crawling into a hole.
“I’m enthusiastic. So kill me.”
Pausing in front of Lilly’s Cafe, I cross my arms and glare at her, using my patented Shut Up, Denise look I’ve perfected over the years. My arms rest higher, above the implants. Another man glances at my cleavage as he exits the restaurant.
Denise gives me a
“Oh. My. God, Molly! Trina told me, but Oh. My. God!” She punctuates her words with dramatic inflection, causing people scurrying past to stop and stare. Lesson one: big boobs, when positioned correctly, make men, women, and even children stare. And Denise’s hysterics are adding to the problem.
“Would you shut up already?” I stage whisper. “Get a grip, Denise. You’ve got a pair of your own, you know.” Grabbing her arm, I drag her down the sidewalk toward Lilly’s Cafe, our favorite postjail eatery. A cold wind blows up the street from Elliott Bay. I wish I’d overcome my embarrassment with Dad and grabbed a coat.
“Not like those!” She is delighted. “It’s so totally, totally un-Molly.”
“And so totally not what I wanted. Can we please talk about something else? Like, how you landed in the hoosegow?”
“I gotta tell ya, sis, they look good. You are the last person in the world I would have thought about having implants. Of course, from a feminist perspective, it is wrong in so many, many ways, but, what the hell, they look awesome.”
“Why, thank you. I just love talking about my breast implants while walking down a crowded city sidewalk.”
“You don’t have to be such a grouch.” She manages to keep her trap shut for a mere five feet before bursting out, “Will they, like, ever sag? Will you be this eighty-year-old, totally wrinkly woman with completely perky breasts?”
“Yes, I will be the eighty-year-old woman with completely perky breasts with the asinine seventy-eight-year old sister, no doubt still peppering me with inane questions.”
“That’s awesome!” she gasps.
“I’m kidding. They’re coming out in six weeks and four days.”
Denise shakes her head, running to keep up with me. “What a shame. You remind me of a Jeff Koons painting.” We’re at a stoplight.
“Who’s Jeff Koons?” I don’t really want to hear the answer, but Denise has an infectious enthusiasm that sucks me in every time.
“He’s this totally awesome artist who does these really over-the-top, Vargas-style women with really big, really big . . .” There is a crowd of people surrounding us waiting for the light to change. Denise holds her hands out in front of her chest. “You know, well-endowed women busting out of their shirts.” Our fellow pedestrians eye Denise with interest.
“Sounds very classy,” I say and sigh.
“He’s shown in museums all over the world. He was married to a famous Hungarian porn star, but they broke up.”
“Shame.” I punch the stupid crossing button. This has to be the longest light in the world.
“Yeah, she had huge implants.” Denise holds her hands over her breasts again. “Enormous. What was her name? Chicci-something; she was a member of the Italian parliament for five years.”
The light changes. Nobody walks. They’re too busy gawking at Denise. I take the initiative, crossing the street. Is it my imagination, or are a handful of people keeping pace with us?
I have to admit, we make quite a pair. I’m in a revealing shirt. Denise sports a tight black miniskirt, neon purple tights, clunky black shoes, and a jacket that looks like six crows flew into a jet engine. She made it last year using a cardigan, four bags of feathers, and a glue gun.
“Could we please talk about something else besides porn stars and breast implants?” I hiss. “I haven’t even had a cup of coffee.” It’s fine when it’s between me and my mirror, but listening to my hyperactive little sister yammer on about implants makes me feel like crawling into a hole.
“I’m enthusiastic. So kill me.”
Pausing in front of Lilly’s Cafe, I cross my arms and glare at her, using my patented Shut Up, Denise look I’ve perfected over the years. My arms rest higher, above the implants. Another man glances at my cleavage as he exits the restaurant.
Denise gives me a
Similar Books
