Perfect breasts

"You have perfect breasts," she said again.
Definitively.
Authoritatively.

I eyed the pictures, and silently agreed that they did look rather lovely. I thought I could detect signs of my recent weight-loss, which only made them look sweeter. More delicate. Beautiful in form. I wish I had thought to have her e-mail the pictures. If that were allowed.

She's an old friend. Her boyfriend has become back-up cat-sitter for me and my nearby friends when we aren't there for each other. She's a radiologist. I go to her practice when my insides need to be seen, in hopes she will be there and, flaunting protocol, will give me the results right away. In this case, the tests were a routine mammogram, plus a pelvic and vaginal sonogram to confirm the renewed soundness of my pussy and womb. Perhaps all the twitching and contracting had been good for them, permanently banishing the last of the questionable cells.

"You have perfect breasts."

Her evaluation had more to do with how easy they were to read than with how pretty they are. A medical and practical as opposed to artistic valuation. Still, I do think they are rather sweet. See?

"You have perfect breasts."

My Master's reply was brief and clear.

"She was right."