Comfort. She wore it for comfort. Shape didn’t matter. That it covered her softer and more vulnerable parts that were left bare was all she cared about except for the softness of the fabric. She had lost track of how long she has had it. The edges, all edges were now worn and fraying. The edge of the sleeves, neckline and hem where the material folded was worn so thin there were very few places which still had threads connecting. The inside and outside edges where the material folded under to be sewn now curled in opposite directions of each other in many places revealing how the crease was worn creating two separate pieces of material. If she had no place to go she wore it most days around the house only putting on a comfortable pair of yoga pants.
The neckline was loose. It gave her the room she desired. It caressed the back of her hand every time she slid her fingers across her skin, sliding them underneath the neckline to travel down and across the slow rise of flesh. Feeling the soft texture of the material contrasting with the soft flesh of her skin, pressing her fingers gently, massaging and exploring until they reached a particular spot just left and south of her armpit.
Each time she hoped it wouldn’t be there. Each time she hoped it would be smaller if she found it. Each time though her fingers found the hardness where the soft cushiony feeling of her breast changed into something foreign, something unknown to her, though over the past several months had become so familiar it no longer surprised her when she felt it. Her fingers caressed it like an old friend, searching out the edges, exploring its texture finding some places harder than others.
Lying down it felt different than when sitting up. Lying down it was almost invisible to her touch. Sitting up, there was no doubt of its existence, her fingers found it without error under the dimpled surface of her skin.
As her fingers massaged she felt its contours. There was nothing to indicate the evil lurking beneath the surface. There was nothing sharp nor menacing about it. There was no pain. There was no tenderness. There was nothing but the simple fact that one small area of her rather sensually soft curve of breast had become hard.
She had lived with it a long time. How long she really couldn’t remember. She couldn’t even remember what it was like when she first felt it. It was very similar to the lump on her neck which a doctor told her was a blocked lymph node. Why no one seemed concerned over it but yet suddenly had her jumping through hoops over this other lump, she quite frankly didn’t understand.
She often wondered if the doctor had been wrong about the lump on her neck now that she knew for sure that the lump in her breast was not benign. What difference did it make now? None really.
Her hand often found its way, sliding under the soft material which wrapped her in comfort. After caressing it like an old friend, her hand would travel further down find her large nipple. Feeling its contours and softness until her caress brought it to a hard peak. Cupping her breast, feeling its weight in her hand she wondered how vastly different it would feel when they constructed her new one. Would the new one respond to her touch? Or a man’s touch? It was sad to think it would not.