We stood outside washing the cars. The sun was shining down, reflecting off the drops of water on the bodies of our vehicles like twinkling stars. You slapped a dripping soapy rag onto the hood of your car, sliding it around on the smooth metal surface. I sponged down a fender of my yellow Volkswagen.
"Baby, hand me the hose. Could you?" you asked. You looked to me, noticing how wet my white tanktop was getting. My breasts--my "succulent 38's" as you called them--swayed bralessly as I rubbed down my car.
