“No, I’m absolutely serious!”, Katsuo says after swig of his bourbon. He was trying to hard to convince her that he was sober right now. “What bra size do you think I am? I need to know so I can order one online!”
The bar is closed. The lights are low and warm like syrup, and the music is filling all the spaces of her head she works so tirelessly to ignore. She laughs at his question, head tilting back and back until she has to jolt to catch her balance before she falls off the counter she's perched on.
That just makes her laugh more.
There's warmth in her skin, her cheeks. She's fishing out another whisky soaked cherry with less than refined fingers.
"I dunno! I'd need, like, your rib measurements to guess. Bras are dumb. They're, fuckin', black magic science bullshit to size anyway." She catches the red flesh of the cherry between her teeth. "Just buy a fuckin' bralette in, like, medium. Way easier. Cuter, too."















