“Triple D’s actually. Triple B isn’t even a size,” she said as if we were discussing shoe sizes. “My mistake,” I said, trying not to drool...over her. Wait, did she really say triple D’s? I wasn’t sure if that was a real size either, but with how large hers were I totally believed it. She looked down.“Six inches?” she asked. I couldn’t help but laugh. It felt like she was ribbing me for calling her out on her bra size, even though I wasn’t trying to.“Give or take,” I said, attempting to exude a. Water poured out of it, but the contents were surprisingly clean, as if the seal on the lid had strained out the mud as water seeped through.Right on top was a manuscript, soaked, but readable. It was maybe eighty pages, all stuck together. The cover page said: The Case of the Broken Kangaroo Pounder by Ron Stevens. Mitch's eyes widened. He'd read "Living With an Aardvark" and had laughed his ass off. It had been given to him as a birthday present from his sister and was one of the strangest. “Morning, Titi,” Juan said, while eating bacon and eggs sloppily. He got slapped across the head.“Pinche chico sucio! Wipe your damn mouth for once!” His aunt, Isa said harshly, but with love. Isa was a foul-mouthed Puerto Rican who migrated to New York. Men went wild for her. Isa had a slim, model-type figure with a beautiful face.“Ow,” said Juan.“Oh, please. That doesn’t hurt. You play football,” Isa said.“You’re strong, Titi,” Juan said, looking back.Juan looked in her eyes and began to get. I think I described Jennifer’s breasts earlier, but that was a while ago, so I’ll recap. They were heavy in the sense that gravity weighed them down enough that they sloped from her upper chest to the nipples, which were like googly eyes, looking in slightly different directions. Then their shape became a round mass beneath that joined her chest at right angles. I wouldn’t have called it sagging. They reminded me of a hill I used to go sledding on that had a little upturn at the bottom. You.