let you know the logo design job is yours if you want it.”
“Really? That’s great. I’m sure your recommendation helped.”
“Actually, we didn’t have very many applicants. It wasn’t widely advertised and it’s a pretty small job. But I still put in a good word for you,” he quickly adds.
“I’ll mock up a few designs. It shouldn’t take me long. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
“Keep track of how many hours you spend on it and I’ll make sure you get paid.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“Talk to you soon,” he says.
“Okay. Bye, Daniel.” When I hang up I add his name and number to the contacts in my phone, feeling a bit guilty at how happy it makes me feel.
19
claire
Bridget’s husband, Sam, hits the literal jackpot shortly before the start of the new school year. A spontaneous decision to drop a quarter in a slot machine on his way out of the casino resulted in triple 7s and a seventy-five-thousand-dollar payout. This is the kind of thing that could happen only to Sam.
Bridget appropriates a chunk of the winnings and decides to invest in a new pair of breasts, which is very un-Bridget-like and embarrasses her boys to no end, especially Sebastian—who recently turned fifteen—and his younger-by-eighteen-months-brother, Finn. “They’re the boobs I’ve always wanted,” she jokes, but I wonder if they’re really the boobs Sam’s always wanted.
I cook dinner and bring the lasagna over two days after her surgery. Bridget’s normally spotless Craftsman-style home looks like a level-five biohazard, and I trip on the giant mountain of shoes by the front door, including two pairs of mud-caked cleats. I dodge the soccer balls, baseball bats, and piles of dirty laundry that litter the hallway leading from the front door to the kitchen. The house positively reeks of adolescent boys.
I make my way into the kitchen, calling out to Bridget so she knows it’s me. The counters are covered in empty frozen food containers and someone has left out a gallon of milk, uncapped. I set down the lasagna, throw the cardboard and plastic wrap into the recycle bin in the garage, and cap the milk and put it in the fridge.
“Don’t look at my disgusting kitchen, Claire,” Bridget shouts from the living room. “Those boys are pigs!”
I laugh as I enter the room and approach the couch where Bridget’s been recuperating. She’s propped up by several throw pillows, and I can’t help but stare. The new breasts are unbelievably large, and I finally drag my eyes upward. “How do they feel?” I ask.
“Big,” Bridget says. Straining against the thin fabric of her T-shirt, they look hard and unyielding, but I don’t tell her that.
“Are they still swollen?” I ask.
“I hope so,” she says. Bridget and I are both small boned and average height. Suddenly, my B-cup breasts don’t bother me as much because her now-overflowing D cups seem so out of proportion. I don’t mention this, either.
“As soon as I recover and get this disaster area cleaned up, we’re going to have a party,” Bridget says. “Sam’s feeling very celebratory.”
“I’m sure he is,” I say. “He’s a lucky man. In more ways than one.”
I refill Bridget’s water glass and find her pain pills. She swallows one and leans back against the pillows. A door slams and the sound of many footsteps and lots of excited shouting reaches us. Bridget sighs. “I think they found the lasagna.”
I listen carefully but all I hear is the tearing of foil followed by grunting. “Wow,” I say. “They’re like a pack of wild dogs.”
“You don’t even know,” Bridget says.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I made two pans.”
• • •
Bridget’s true to her word, and two weeks later she and Sam invite everyone over. “You don’t need to bring a thing,” she says, when she calls me on the phone. “It’s on us.”
Bridget has the meal catered by one of her and Sam’s favorite barbecue restaurants. Smoky,
“Really? That’s great. I’m sure your recommendation helped.”
“Actually, we didn’t have very many applicants. It wasn’t widely advertised and it’s a pretty small job. But I still put in a good word for you,” he quickly adds.
“I’ll mock up a few designs. It shouldn’t take me long. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
“Keep track of how many hours you spend on it and I’ll make sure you get paid.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“Talk to you soon,” he says.
“Okay. Bye, Daniel.” When I hang up I add his name and number to the contacts in my phone, feeling a bit guilty at how happy it makes me feel.
19
claire
Bridget’s husband, Sam, hits the literal jackpot shortly before the start of the new school year. A spontaneous decision to drop a quarter in a slot machine on his way out of the casino resulted in triple 7s and a seventy-five-thousand-dollar payout. This is the kind of thing that could happen only to Sam.
Bridget appropriates a chunk of the winnings and decides to invest in a new pair of breasts, which is very un-Bridget-like and embarrasses her boys to no end, especially Sebastian—who recently turned fifteen—and his younger-by-eighteen-months-brother, Finn. “They’re the boobs I’ve always wanted,” she jokes, but I wonder if they’re really the boobs Sam’s always wanted.
I cook dinner and bring the lasagna over two days after her surgery. Bridget’s normally spotless Craftsman-style home looks like a level-five biohazard, and I trip on the giant mountain of shoes by the front door, including two pairs of mud-caked cleats. I dodge the soccer balls, baseball bats, and piles of dirty laundry that litter the hallway leading from the front door to the kitchen. The house positively reeks of adolescent boys.
I make my way into the kitchen, calling out to Bridget so she knows it’s me. The counters are covered in empty frozen food containers and someone has left out a gallon of milk, uncapped. I set down the lasagna, throw the cardboard and plastic wrap into the recycle bin in the garage, and cap the milk and put it in the fridge.
“Don’t look at my disgusting kitchen, Claire,” Bridget shouts from the living room. “Those boys are pigs!”
I laugh as I enter the room and approach the couch where Bridget’s been recuperating. She’s propped up by several throw pillows, and I can’t help but stare. The new breasts are unbelievably large, and I finally drag my eyes upward. “How do they feel?” I ask.
“Big,” Bridget says. Straining against the thin fabric of her T-shirt, they look hard and unyielding, but I don’t tell her that.
“Are they still swollen?” I ask.
“I hope so,” she says. Bridget and I are both small boned and average height. Suddenly, my B-cup breasts don’t bother me as much because her now-overflowing D cups seem so out of proportion. I don’t mention this, either.
“As soon as I recover and get this disaster area cleaned up, we’re going to have a party,” Bridget says. “Sam’s feeling very celebratory.”
“I’m sure he is,” I say. “He’s a lucky man. In more ways than one.”
I refill Bridget’s water glass and find her pain pills. She swallows one and leans back against the pillows. A door slams and the sound of many footsteps and lots of excited shouting reaches us. Bridget sighs. “I think they found the lasagna.”
I listen carefully but all I hear is the tearing of foil followed by grunting. “Wow,” I say. “They’re like a pack of wild dogs.”
“You don’t even know,” Bridget says.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I made two pans.”
• • •
Bridget’s true to her word, and two weeks later she and Sam invite everyone over. “You don’t need to bring a thing,” she says, when she calls me on the phone. “It’s on us.”
Bridget has the meal catered by one of her and Sam’s favorite barbecue restaurants. Smoky,
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