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She was laughing, pointing to the braless flesh that dipped slightly underneath the thin t-shirt I usually wore to bed. "You've got banana boobs," she said, smirking.
Three years between us, my sister and I were constantly bickering. We'd fight over everything, from who was cooler to who was really our parents' favorite. We even argued once, for an hour, over which one of us Christian Slater would marry if we were stranded on a desert island together. Making fun of each other, pointing out each other's flaws, was just our way of determining who the winner of our various battles should be. But banana boobs? I was sure I should be offended, but I didn't even know what banana boobs were, or whether or not I had them.
In my fifteen years, I'd never heard anyone use the words bananas and boobs in the same sentence. And I'd heard plenty of slang to soften the seriousness of the term breasts--melons, jugs, bazooms, ta-tas, gazongas. Somehow, banana seemed wrong, impossible even. Breasts were round and full, heavy and shaped like the curve of a palm. They weren't long or skinny or yellow.
"At least I have boobs," I said, ending the fight by pushing past her and retreating to my room.
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