Last year.
I went on a date with a man.
He always took me to nice places.
That day too, he ordered a wine pairing.
Maybe he was a little drunk.
Suddenly, very politely, he asked,
“So… what’s your breast size?”
There was something serious in his gaze.
It didn’t feel sleazy.
So I told him.
“It’s a certain cup size.”
Then, as if my confession required one in return,
he straightened up and declared,
“You see, I’m 16 cm.”
At that moment,
saying “That’s big” felt too graphic —
and honestly, like it would turn into something annoying.
So I said,
“That’s… impressive.”
He immediately shook his head, modestly.
“No, no. Big starts at 18 cm.
I’m still not there at all.”
To this day, I find myself contemplating.
What exactly
is the difference
between those two centimeters?
