12-year Usi looked between the curtains.
Usi had her eye on the woman in brown, dressed neither here nor there. She saw the woman had deliberately pushed down the neck of her stiff salwar to flash a bit of chest. Fat, milky white cleavage, they didn't spill, they surged. Because they were as firm as elephants. How many men could she hold between them? The woman sat with her incongruous pantomime lipstick and glimmered with intentions only she knew. Her breasts were the twin icons of the room. Each could suckle a continent. Left for Asia, Right for America. And she would never go dry. Why were the men not looking at them? Usi wondered how this woman's 'man' must box these sandbags at night. She tittered behind the curtain, binding her chest in arms to keep her own buds in check.
(pic: art by fellini again; dont mean to rip it)