SARA GERMANO
WHAT’S YOUR CUP SIZE, ROZANNE?
My mother gave me her gift
certificate and I drove myself ten minutes to the mall-
I can’t get ahold of this driving thing yet, I mean
I’m always forgetting something, like okay
maybe I should have signaled that
lane change on Central and it probably wasn’t
a good idea to have turned right on that one-way
(the guy in that Civic was kinda mad about that one
but I’m a good person, I promise! I volunteered
at Equinox!)
So, I check to make sure the car is
locked after I park, and there’s that
small moment of triumph when I pull open
the fingerprint-stained glass doors to the
shopping center.
Independence, finally.
And here I am, in Victoria’s
Secret. Surrounded by lace and strings and things
with precariously delicate names.
All I really need is a good bra or two, a few
pairs of underwear. The sales associate
asks for my cup size
and it all comes rushing back:
that horrible fight, the boxes full of
his belongings. He ran off with all my nice bras.
And to tell you the truth
I can’t remember my cup size, either.
I fidget and check her name tag and
address her directly. I say,
“Kayla, I’m going to need your help.”