Laugh and grow

"Funniest damn joke I ever heard was about a penguin walking into a bar." The tiny voice crackled from the phone propped against the dish soap bottle. Anna snorted, scrubbing burnt cheese off a skillet. Her shoulders shook. A giggle escaped.

She wiped suds off her hands onto her jeans. That comedian’s deadpan delivery always got her. Her chest tightened under the thin spaghetti strap top. She took a shallow breath. It felt like wearing a rubber band two sizes too small.

Another punchline hit. Anna doubled over laughing, forehead almost touching the sink’s edge. Her knuckles turned white gripping the sponge. Fabric strained audibly. A seam popped near her shoulder. Cool air brushed suddenly exposed skin above her swelling cleavage. She straightened up fast, pressing a wet hand to her heaving sternum.

Water dripped from the tap into the sink. Plink. Plink. Plink. Anna stared down. The white cotton top barely covered the lower curve of each breast now. Blue veins mapped tender flesh pushed taut against the fabric. She touched one aching swell gingerly. Hot. Tight. Like overfilled water balloons. Her reflection in the chrome faucet showed flushed cheeks and messy blonde curls sticking to her temples.

Silence hung heavy when the podcast paused for ads. Anna shifted her weight. The cheap cotton scraped sensitive skin. Every slight movement made her aware of the heavy, tender pressure filling her top. She turned the faucet off. Drops still fell from the wet sponge onto the linoleum. Her phone screen glowed with the comedian’s grinning face. Waiting.

She snatched a dish towel – rough, yellowed. Methodically, she dried her fingers, her palms, each knuckle. The friction felt sharp against skin stretched impossibly thin. She tossed the towel onto the counter. Water dripped from the tap onto the forgotten skillet. Plink. Plink.

The podcast resumed. "So this penguin," the voice crackled, "orders a drink... and the bartender says..." Anna took a step towards the living room doorway. The punchline, absurd and delivered with impeccable timing, hit her unprepared. A bark of laughter ripped from her throat. She threw her head back, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. The sheer, ridiculous momentum of her guffaw sent her staggering forward another step onto the cool tiles of the hallway.

It was the sudden, shocking coolness against her upper chest that registered first – a rush of free, unconfined air where there had been only painful containment. The thin shoulder straps stretched beyond their limit with a final, muffled twang. The entire top half of her spaghetti-strap shirt peeled downward violently under the immense, laughing swell. Suddenly, the tight cotton band only encircled her lower ribs. Above it, her immense breasts surged fully into the open air. They bounced heavily, freely, with each gasping guffaw, utterly exposed. The kitchen light glanced off skin stretched drum-tight, blue veins starkly visible beneath. Her nipples, stiffened by the immediate shock of cool air and the raw sensitivity of her condition, stood prominently against the flushed, tender flesh.

"Crap that was my biggest shirt too..."