Rich man, poor soldier, spy and killer, they all wept like infants on my chest. Not bad for a girl who had 34As ‘til college. I want to tell my mother that, but she’s dead.
All that softball will get you nowhere, she said. So wrong, I want to say. Being short stop’s about the best training you could possibly have for being the Bureau’s Brown Recluse.
(I wanted “Black Widow” but they said “Brown Recluse” was a better fit. They’re almost just as poisonous. Look it up.)
Flat chest, my mother said. Big thighs, she said. Now there’s no way to tell her I crushed a Russian diplomat to death between them last week.
When I went to her funeral, my government-financed, highly enhanced chest was nearly busting out of my mourning wear. People looked at me like it was vanity that made me get these. No sir, it was love of country.
Cleaning out her house afterward, I found all my training bras laundered and stacked in the top drawer. They looked like doll lingerie. Not even good for the field — those daisy clasps would snap the minute you tried to strangle someone with it.
Had she expected me to come back and need those?
This bosom’s like having two loaded Glocks on at all times.
When I point them at someone, they do what they say.
Front page image by Anita Carril.
GHOST WRITER is a project by Tracy Danger Mumford. New sections are released every other Sunday. If you’d like to receive email alerts—and that’s all you’ll get, a short email—saying the new one’s up, sign up here: