Another bit of creative writing courtesy of The Husband. I think he’ll be getting his own blog soon
Sylvia’s breasts were perfect. The surgeon, a part-time addict and full-time perfectionist, ensured they were the finest creation other than those created by God himself. Perfectly balanced in size and shape, they caused many men, and a few envious women, to strain their eyes and necks as she glided by.
Perfection was rare, and when it occurred it was something to be admired and cherished. Dreamed about. Photographed. Felt. Owned. The hands of a mortal man had built something that rivalled the timeless beauty of the Almighty Creator. They missed their perfect work. It was time to take them back.