You haven’t found the right word for your chest yet. In your mind you’ve tested out options: tits, boobs, rack, fun bags, tetas. Spanish is no help, the language impossibly sexual, even when it isn’t on the tongues of men catcalling you on the street. Amor. Ángel. You respect the men who are honest, who come out and say it. Que tetas, mamí, gringa. Tonight, in María’s blue top, your chest looks deflated in the draped cotton.
