Once back from the hospital, my dear beloved Christian is feeling rather spry.

"Ana," he tells me, "after all these years, I'm still obsessed with your breasts."

"At my age?" I ask him.

"Especially at your age," he replies.

My, but the old bugger really is a pervert.

Of course, I don't believe him. At my age, everything is heavier, hairier, and closer to the ground, so "Okay," I tell him, "say the first thing that comes into your mind when I say a word."

"Okay," he agrees.

"Oranges."

"Jugs!" he answers, without any hesitation.

"Grapefruits."

"Knockers!"

"Plums."

"Boobies!"

"Windshield wipers."

"Gazongas!" Christian exclaims.

"Now wait a minute," I tell him. "I can understand oranges, grapefruits, or even plums making you think of my breasts, but windshield wipers?"

"Especially windshield wipers," he explains. "You see, first this one, then that one, then this one, then that one..."