Pendulous. That’s a good word to describe them,” says Ellie, an English major at the state college who is waiting tables at Finnegan’s Pub for the summer, gathering material for a novel she’ll never write.

      Anne, a year younger and not in school, is hunched over at the waitress station, lifting a rack of clean glasses. She groans. “My boyfriend said he’ll break up with me if I have the surgery,” Anne says. “He said he’ll miss them so much he won’t be able to look at me without feeling the loss.”

     “What a prick. I mean, ignoramus.”

     “They’re killing my back, Ellie. I can’t carry the weight.”

     “I’d like to take some of that weight off you,” Ellie says, cupping her hands below her small breasts and giving them a quick lift. “Diminutive, that’s the word to describe mine.”

     “Sometimes I like to imagine a world where they don’t exist, where men would have to find something else to do with their damn hands,” Anne says as an older man in a wrinkled suit stumbles out of the bar, past the waitress station.

     “Nice tits,” he says.

     The girls gasp, blush, scowl. “Who was he talking to?” Anne asks.

     “Does it matter?”

     “Yes,” says Anne. “Sadly, it does.”

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