Allie and I are in the basement of my apartment building reading Sylvia Plath and doing Andy's laundry. It's a tiny room with no chairs, so we sit on the floor next to each other against the dryers and it's warm and cozy and Allie's voice is in perfect pitch with the hum of the dryers.

I tell Allie she makes everything a gender issue, and the wash is just a favor."

Allie says I'm deluding myself.

I tell Allie I think my breasts are starting to sag.

"Starting?" she says. "Mine are totally sagged."

"I'm sure they're not totally sagged," I say, "It's scientifically proven that breasts are not totally sagged when you're twenty-six years old."

"No, look," she says, and turns her body to face mine, and I look, and I'm looking at her bra, which is white and lacy, and I'm thinking how would it be to see under her bra when she lifts up her bra, and there her breasts are. They're bigger than I expected -- bigger than mine, and her nipples are big, and pinkish brown and everything is smooth and round.

She pulls her bra down and then her shirt. "So?" she says.

"What?" I ask.

"Do you think they sag?"

"I can't remember."

"What do you mean you can't remember?"

"What do you mean by flashing me like that?"

"I didn't flash you. It's just my breasts. Girls always show their friends their breasts. I've done it my whole life."

"But not like this," I say. "I looked lustfully, not informatively. You knew that would happen."

Allie says, "You're overreacting,"