Gravitational Offerings

"Would you like a breast lift?" Asks Rob.

"No way," I mutter, "I've seen before and after pictures on the web and it's not pretty." I glance at my chest. When the girls were perky, I stuffed them in coveralls, or hid them behind bib overalls. Now that I'm no longer shy, they've gone south.

"Okay."

Okay? What does he mean okay? I give him a narrow look, but he's too busy wrestling with the dog to notice. "So," I ask, certain he doesn't care, but determined to prove it, "do you want me to have a boob job?"

He chuckles. "Of course not. I just wanted you to know that if it's important to you, we'll find the money somewhere."

Huh. I'm not annoyed, but I'm getting close. "Where exactly did you get the idea that I might want a breast lift?"

He shrugs "I was in operations the other day and that's what the flight attendants were talking about."

Yep, that explains a lot. I start to laugh. "I was there last week as they discussed where the silicon goes when their implants rupture." He gives me a pained look and I nod. "Yep, some of them have funny lumps on their elbows."

He grimaces, gets to his feet and squeezes me tight. His chest rumbles and his shoulders shake. "Is that a nipple in my belly button?"

"No dammit," I smack his arm and tally up the price of a new bra, "that's my belt buckle."