I’m going to talk about seeing your breasts.
I saw them that one time I met you and you stayed with me and my girlfriend. You took a shower in the shower, and I was updating my blog. It was some time like seven or eight years ago that I saw your breasts.
I think about seeing your breasts occasionally. I wasn’t supposed to see your breasts, and I don’t think about anything else about you. What was your Italian face? Your breasts were unremarkably special breasts. Did we speak things? It all seems vague, like some sort of non-breast thing I saw almost a decade ago.
I could be a person who pretended not to see your breasts, but realistically, I still tell people I saw your breasts.
My loving wife is aware I saw them, and she accepts this blog post I’m dedicating to seeing your breasts through a slightly open bathroom door.
My seeing-of-your-breasts is a legend I tell at parties. You are European, so you might not understand, but seeing your breasts made my life better. I’m an adult male that goes to social events and shakes the hands of good-looking, wealthy people, with a vision of myself firmly instilled, a directionless youth, seeing a set of pretty decent Italian breasts.
What I’m getting at, is that I’m very grateful. I replay my seeing your breasts in my head, and I feel things. I peek through the crack in the door, and I see something, and that matters. And seeing your breasts for about two seconds, in the mirror, is all that matters.