“You need something to wear,” Gordon said as he turned the pickup into a big parking lot. “Do you know your sizes?”
“Sizes?” I said. We don’t need no stinking sizes, I wanted to say.
He shook his head, smiling. He looked at me as if measuring with his gaze. “Small,” he said. “Except—” he made a gesture at his chest.
I glanced down. I’m tiny everywhere else, and I have huge tits, I thought. “I’m going to need—” I gestured. “You know? A bra?” I blushed to say it because it was true—without some kind of restraint, I was at the doubtful mercy of my oversize accessories.
“I have no idea how to buy the right size of that. Let me get you some shorts and tops, and then you can go in and maybe try some other stuff on?”
“‘Kay,” I said. It came to me as he exited the car that he was suggesting that I go into the lingerie department and shop for a bra. Oh, hell, no. I sighed. Bra shopping looked like an existential crisis looming for someone who was convinced she used to be a man.
