"Do you think my boobs look funny?"

I take a moment to observe them objectively. Vera Cain's breasts: B-cups, daintily hanging from her freckled bust. There are a few stretch marks here and there, but they act more as proof that she's an adult more than anything. Her nipples are the same color as her lips, and they, too, are set in a permanent pout. Vera's breasts are perfect, and I can't see what on earth could be wrong with them. Before I can open my mouth, however, Vera answers her own question.

"One's bigger than the other. See?" She transfers the joint from her hand to her mouth, and cups her breasts. She jiggles them around a little, and smiles to herself, "No big deal."

I reach over and pluck the joint from her rosebud lips, pressing it softly in between mine. I inhale, Vera smirks. I shut my eyes for a second—or is it a long blink? I exhale, thinking, If I died right now, I'd be happy.

Vera rests her head on my shoulder, her long frizzy hair acting as a pillow between her cranium and my own bony clavicle.

"You know, I think your boobs are perfect." She whispers to me. She reaches out a small hand and places it on my left breast, her fingers putting less pressure on my skin than even a butterfly would. She turns her head, and her lips find the mottled skin of my shoulder.