She had read all of it by the end of the first week, and she had opinions, and that Sunday she put his own phone down on the table in front of him and said, "Right. What do you actually like."

Josh had the iPad on his knee and a page half inked and it was four in the afternoon, which was when he worked, which she knew.

"What?"

"You. What you like." She sat down opposite him and folded her arms on the table. "I've read the whole comic. Six years of it, sixteen hundred pages, and I've been through it twice now, and it doesn't say."

"It's not supposed to say anything—"

"It's supposed to say what you like. That's the entire point of it. You made it on your own, for yourself, to jerk off to, and it should be sixteen hundred pages of exactly what you want, and instead it's sixteen hundred pages of everything." She flicked the phone toward him. It was open on page four eighty-one. "You've drawn every shape there is. It's useless."

He put the stylus down.

The comic was the job. It was shapeshifter porn and it had been shapeshifter porn since he was nineteen, and he put it out a page at a time to about two thousand people who paid him a few dollars a month for it, he drew it on the iPad in the afternoons in a flat he didn't pay rent on, and he'd been doing that for six years without anybody asking him a single question about it.

Then two weeks ago an actual shapeshifter had knocked on his door.

He had thought about that sequence of events roughly once an hour since, and had gotten nowhere with it, and had settled into a low steady hum of not asking.

"I'm working," he said.

"You're not."

"I've got a page—"

"You've got a page every day." She was already scrolling. "We're doing this properly. Top to bottom. One thing at a time, I change it, you tell me, I write it down. Then I know, and I never have to guess again, and we save about an hour every single time."

"An hour."

"You take an hour." She didn't look up. "Sit up. We're starting at the top."

*

She stood, which she did not need to do to make a point and did anyway.

Six foot three. He was five foot six on a good day and had measured it recently for exactly this reason, which meant nine inches of difference, which meant that when they both stood up his face was level with her tits. It did not get near them. It landed on them. That was simply where his head arrived.

Black hair down past the middle of her back. Small tits, a C at the outside, and she'd told him in the first week that she kept her boobs that size because anything more got heavy and she couldn't be bothered carrying it around the flat. Waist that came in hard under the ribs. Almost nothing on her ass, which he had opinions about and had already learned not to voice, and then the hips started, and then the thighs, and then an unreasonable amount of leg.

He had drawn all of that. That was the part he had stopped poking at. He had drawn her, correctly, in detail, for years before she knocked on his door, and he had no explanation for it and neither did she, and the one time it came up she had shrugged and gone back to eating.

"Face," she said.

He looked at the face. It was a good face. It had been a good face on page one and it was a good face now, and there was nothing he wanted from it.

"It's fine."

"That's not an answer."

"It doesn't need—"

"No, you don't get to have this one anyway. Face is mine." She hooked two fingers into her hair, pulled it back off one side, turned her head and gave him the profile, and held it there long enough to be insulting. "I'm just telling you so you know it happened. But say something."

"It's a good face."

"Say something."

"I don't have anything, Luna, it's already—" He gave up. "It's already right."

She wrote that down. She wrote it down at some length, which he did not like at all.

"Hair," she said.

*

Her hair went black.

Then it went red, in about a second and a half, the color running up out of the roots like something poured in, and then it went long, down past her waist, and then short again, and each time it moved on its own for a moment afterward before it settled.

"Well?"

"It's fine."

"Which one."

"They're all fine."

She typed with one thumb.

"What are you writing?"

"Doesn't matter."

"What are you writing."

"'Doesn't matter.'" She turned the screen around. She had, in fact, written doesnt matter. "That's what you said. That's the third time today."

"That's — hang on, that's going to look like I don't care—"

"You don't care."

"I care a normal amount—"

"It's hair," she said, and went back to black, and never mentioned hair again for the rest of his life.

*

The eyes took longer, because she did them one at a time and made him watch.

The left one went pale first. The brown drained out of the iris from the center outward, thinning to gray and then to almost nothing, the pupil sitting in the middle of all that too dark and too round. Then it filled again, gold this time, and the gold came in as a ring at the outer edge and closed inward.

"Well?"

"That's nice."

She did green. Then a red that was too much and she knew it and dropped it before he had to say anything. Then a blue so pale it was nearly white, which she held for a while, watching him over the top of the phone.

"That's nice too," Josh said.

"You've said nice twice."

"They're nice."

Then she left the right one that pale blue and turned the left one back to brown, and put her chin up, and looked at him with one of each.

"Look at it properly."

He looked at it properly. It was strange in a way he liked, the mismatch pulling his eye back and forth between them.

"Yeah, that's good," he said. "That's actually good."

She waited. He didn't add anything, because there wasn't anything to add, and after about four seconds she put both of them back to brown without comment and wrote one short line on the phone.

"Not it, then," she said.

*

"Give me your hand."

"Which—"

She took the left one, and instead of holding it she laced her fingers into his and pressed their palms flat together, like two people holding hands across a table, and Josh looked down at it because it was a nice thing to have happen.

There was an extra finger.

He counted twice. Hers went between his in the ordinary way, four gaps for four fingers, and then there was one more, a whole additional finger lying across the back of his hand with a knuckle and a nail and everything, and the web of her hand had rearranged itself around it while he wasn't looking.

"Is that creepy?" Luna said.

"No." He turned their hands over and looked at it from the other side. "That's cool."

"But."

"It's just — what do you do with it? It doesn't do anything. It's a spare."

"It's useless."

"I didn't say useless."

"You said spare."

She let go of his hand. Then she reached across the table with the six-fingered one and started unbuttoning his shirt with it.

And the extra finger did actually help. He watched it happen. It came in underneath while the thumb and forefinger worked the button, holding the placket steady so the fabric didn't pull, doing a job that would normally have taken the other hand. Two buttons went in about a second and a half.

Then the third one didn't.

The sixth finger came in half a beat late, at the wrong angle, and shoved the button sideways instead of holding anything, and she had to back off and go again, and the second go was worse. She got it eventually. The fourth one took her three attempts and she said something under her breath.

"It's fine," Josh said. "You'll get it. It's like — you've had it for four minutes. Practice."

Luna went very still.

"Practice."

"Yeah, like—"

"You want me to practice."

He recognized the tone about a second too late. She reached over and put her hand flat on his bare chest, and while it was resting there the nails came out: growing forward off the ends of all six fingers, thickening as they went, going from her nail color to something clear and hard and slightly blue, and coming to a point. They kept going. By the time they stopped they were three inches long and they were not nails anymore, they were blades, and she had them lying flat against his sternum.

She dragged them down.

He felt every one of the six separately, the points tracking through his skin from his collarbone to just above his navel, cold, and precise, and not quite breaking him open.

Josh looked down at the six white lines on his chest.

"Huh," he said.

"Nothing?"

"They're a bit cold."

"I could open you up with these."

"You could, yeah."

She pressed harder. She was watching his face the whole time and he was watching her hand, mildly, the way he'd watch her chop something, and the points went in far enough that one of them raised a bead of blood on his stomach and stopped there.

He didn't move. He wasn't performing it. It had not occurred to him to be afraid of her, and that was the thing she was checking for, and she found nothing.

"That's disappointing," Luna said.

"Sorry."

She pulled the blades back into her fingers, which took about as long as it had taken to grow them and went in the opposite order, and licked the blood off her thumb like it was nothing.

*

She sat back down and looked at the phone for a while.

"Four things," she said. "That's what I've got. A face you are not allowed to touch, hair that doesn't matter, eyes that are nice, and a hand that's cool. There's no pattern in that, Josh. That's not a type, that's a list of things you were polite about."

"Maybe I don't have one."

"Everyone has one."

"Then write that down."

"I'm not writing that down, because it's not true, and because you answer fast so I'll stop." She put the phone face down. That was new. "Get up."

"I'm working—"

"Get up. Height."

*

He got up.

And there it was, the thing that happened every time they both stood, that he had stopped noticing about four days in. Her chest, directly in front of his face, at exactly the height his face was. Nine inches of difference did that. He'd worked it out in the first week and then never thought about it again on purpose.

"Height. Go."

"Whatever."

"Say it properly."

"It's fine. Doesn't matter, you're fine as you are, keep it." Four times now. "Next."

She didn't answer.

He waited. Then he understood that she was waiting too, and that she was watching him do something, and that whatever it was he had been doing it for about four seconds without noticing.

He was looking at her chest. His face was already there. He didn't even have to move his eyes for it, that was the thing, it was just what was in front of him, and he had stood up in his own kitchen and stared at it with the woman a foot away watching him do it.

Luna went very still.

"Oh," she said.

"No."

"Oh, you absolute—"

"No—"

"You lied." She was not writing anything down. That was worse. "Four times. You said doesn't matter four times today and I wrote it down four times, and you like the height. You like the height for exactly one reason and it has got nothing to do with the height."

"That's not—"

"It's where it puts these," she said, and got a hand around the back of his head, palm spread wide over his skull, and pulled his face into her chest.

Two things happened on the way in.

The first was the shirt. It came apart down the front without being touched, the two edges drawing back from the middle and running away toward her sides, because it had never been a shirt: it was her, it had always been her, and the sleeves stayed exactly where they were on her arms while the front of it simply stopped existing. There was no bra. There had never been a bra. He had two weeks of laundry evidence for that and had somehow only just done the arithmetic.

The second was that there was nothing there.

He went in and kept going and hit ribs. Flat, hard, warm ribs, a sternum down the middle of them, the skin over the top stretched drum-tight and nothing at all between his face and the bone. Her tits were gone. She had taken both of them out in the two seconds while he was busy looking at her eyes, and now his cheek was mashed flat against her bare chest with her hand holding it there.

It felt like being robbed.

*

"Look up," she said.

He couldn't move his head. She moved it for him, hand still spread over the back of his skull, tilting his face up along her chest until he was looking up the length of her at her chin, then her mouth, then her eyes.

The brown was still there. The pupils weren't.

They were arriving while he watched. The black in the middle of each iris softened at the edges, pinched in at the top and split into two lobes, and the lobes rounded out and ran down to a point at the bottom. Two hearts. Then the color came, pink flooding up from the point and filling both of them until they sat solid and glossy, aimed straight down at him from ten inches away.

"This," Luna said, "is the part where you run."

"Okay—"

"That's what these are for. You see these, you go." She did not let go of his head. She did not loosen her arm by anything at all. "That's your warning."

"You're not actually letting me—"

"No."

He got a hand up between them, flat against her, and shoved, and moved her nowhere, and then said the only thing left available to him.

"Your chest is flat."

Luna looked down. She managed to look startled, eyebrows up, mouth open, the whole performance, as though she'd caught herself in a mirror on the way past.

"Oh my god," she said. "It is."

"You did that."

"Did I?" She ran her free hand slowly down the front of herself, over the flat of it, feeling around for something that wasn't there. "Weird."

"Luna."

"Question." The hand came back up. And her voice changed, not louder, just down and forward, sliding into the thing it slides into, the register that turns up whenever it feels like turning up and never once when she calls for it. "Sweet Josh. Who loves boobs so much. Do you love all of them? Every size?"

"...Yes."

"Say it again."

"Yes. All of them. Any size. That's a yes."

"Mm." Her hand pressed his face harder into her sternum. "That's a lie as well. And I'm going to prove it, and you're going to be right here while I do."

*

Then, under his cheek, her boobs started to grow back.

It came from the inside. That was the part he had no reference for at all: mass gathering underneath the skin his face was already pressed against, crowding up out of her ribcage into the space between him and the bone. It filled the way a bag fills. He felt the flat go from a plane to a slight give, and then to a give with weight behind it, and then his cheekbone stopped meeting anything hard at all, because there was half an inch of soft between his face and her sternum and it was still coming.

She let him sit in that a while. Not moving. Just holding his face in it.

"How's that?"

His mouth was mashed sideways. "Good."

"Good."

"It's good. It's fine."

"You are so bad at this." She began to move the hand on the back of his head, a slow drag that worked his face across the new softness from one side to the other and back. "Stop being modest. I can go anywhere you want. Say a number and I'll be the number. That is the entire thing I do, Josh. That's what I am."

Then she brought her other hand up and put it on the back of his head with the first, and that settled any remaining question about where his face was going to be for the next several minutes.

She grew them in stages. She took her time over it. Josh got every stage from the inside with his eyes shut.

The first stage had been fill. The second was shape. The mass under his cheek stopped spreading flat along her ribs and started gathering in: drawing together at the sides, pushing forward, finding an underside. Then the crease arrived. There was a soft lower curve now, right where his jaw was, and above that curve the boob rose up and settled against his eye socket with real weight in it. She had gone from flat to having actual tits on her, and his face had been inside them the whole way.

She held it there and worked his face into it with both hands, side to side, then in slow circles.

Then she did it again. He felt the next stage swell up around his face the way the last one had, more of it, more crowding out from under her skin, until there was no part of his cheek or his jaw or his temple touching anything but her.

Then again. Then again.

Somewhere around the fourth one her breathing changed.

He noticed because it had not changed at all up to that point. She had been running the whole thing like an errand, and then the breath she took over the top of his head came in shorter than the last one, and the hands on the back of his skull stopped being patient. She started grinding his face into herself rather than moving it, in a rhythm, hard, and she let a sound out through her nose and did not appear to notice she'd done it.

"Okay," she said, to nobody. "Okay, that's — yeah. That's doing something."

He had drawn this. Sixteen hundred pages, and this exact thing was in there more than once, and he had gotten it right, and it turned out that getting it right on a page was not within a mile of it. It was not the same activity. Having his face rubbed into the actual thing, hot and shifting and taking her weight, was better than every page he had ever drawn by a margin he could not have described if she'd asked him to, and she was not asking him anything.

*

He held out three stages. Maybe four. Then his mouth was open and he was licking her.

There was no decision anywhere in it. His tongue was out and dragging flat across her tit, wet, up over the top of it and back down into the crease underneath, and he made a noise he would think about again later that evening.

She pulled his head off her by the hair.

"Oh," Luna said. The two pink hearts came down and found him. "Oh, that was naughty."

"I didn't—"

"You licked me." Delighted, and out of breath, and not hiding either of them. "That's a naughty thing to do and now I've got to do something about it."

"You're the one who—"

"Because here's the problem." She looked down at herself, at the two full heavy shapes she'd built while his face was inside them, and lifted one on the flat of her palm to show him. "Something this big needs nipples. It's rude without them."

So she grew them for him, slowly, and made him watch.

The skin at the front of each one darkened first. A flush spread outward in a circle about the width of a bottle cap and kept widening, going from her color to a deep brown, the edge of it soft and blurred while it moved and then setting hard into a clean round border. The surface inside the border came up rough. Small raised bumps rose out of it, a dozen on each, scattered and faintly shining.

And then, up out of the middle of each circle, the nipples came. They came slowly, thickening as they rose, standing out further than he expected and then further than that, and they stiffened last of all, going tight and hard right at the end while everything around them stayed soft.

Josh looked at them for a while.

"Does it have to be brown?"

Luna's head came up.

That was the first thing he had asked her for all afternoon. She had been extracting single-word answers out of him since two o'clock and he had just, unprompted, in his own voice, put in a request, and he watched her register it and he watched her like it.

"No," she said. "It does not have to be brown."

"Could you—"

"What colour, Josh."

"Pink."

"Say it properly."

"Pink. Make them pink."

And the brown simply left, drawing out of both circles from the outside edge inward, and pink came in behind it, a clean flushed pink that ran all the way up the nipples themselves and stopped at the tips.

She turned a few degrees, to get the window light on them, and looked down at herself for a good three seconds.

"Yeah," she said. "That's better. That's much better."

It was the only thing all afternoon they got right first try.

*

Then she took his head in both hands again and lined him up.

She did it carefully. She moved his whole skull like a piece of equipment, angled it, checked the position, brought him in until his mouth was two inches off the left one.

"Lick it."

"Can we maybe—"

"Lick it," Luna said, and pulled.

His face went in and the whole thing gave around it, hot and heavy and with far more give in it than anything he'd ever put on a page, and his mouth found the nipple somewhere in the middle of all that without being told where to go. He got his lips around it. He sucked hard, and then he bit.

Two things happened at once. The nipple went tight and stood up further inside his mouth, and Luna made a sound that was nothing like the ones she'd been making.

Her hands closed on the back of his head. Her stomach went hard against his chest. She said "oh" once, flatly, as if somebody had told her a fact, and then she said something that wasn't a word and pulled his face in harder and started moving his head for him, working her own nipple across his tongue at a speed he would not have picked, breathing loudly and unevenly about a foot above him.

He got a hand up and took hold of the other one and she said, "Yes, that, keep — yeah."

He did it again to get it again.

*

That was when she picked him up.

She got a forearm under his backside and lifted him clean off the floor with the one arm, which at five foot six was not the achievement she clearly thought it was, and carried him four steps into the bedroom and threw him at the bed hard enough that he bounced. His jeans were still on. His shirt was open and hanging off one shoulder. He was flat on his back working out which way up the room went when the mattress dropped on both sides of his ribs and she was over him on her hands and knees.

Everything hung.

They came down off her chest and they hung, pointed at him, the pink tips about eight inches above his face and swinging slightly every time she breathed, and he lifted his head off the mattress and put his tongue out and could not reach.

He got a hand on the mattress to push himself up and she took the wrist and put it back down. He tried the other one. She took that as well, and then she had both of them, one in each hand, flat on the sheet either side of his head, and she leaned her weight onto them and lowered herself another two inches and stopped, still out of range.

He strained his neck. He got maybe an inch. She watched him do it.

"Do you want help," Luna said.

"...Yes."

"Say please."

"Please."

"Okay," she said, and grew them.

It was not one polite stage. It took about three seconds and her boobs went the whole way, both of them swelling out and down and getting heavy with it, the undersides dropping toward his face as they filled, the shadow of them coming over his eyes, and he got exactly enough time to think too much before the entire mass landed on him.

Her tits covered him. They went over his mouth and his nose and both eyes and most of his forehead, and then they kept settling, spreading out sideways across his face and finding every gap. Hot. Soft the whole way through, no bone anywhere in them, and heavy enough that his head was pushed back into the mattress and stayed there.

He couldn't see. He couldn't get air through his nose. He turned his head to the side and found more of it. He pulled at his wrists and she leaned on them and they went nowhere.

"Can't breathe," Josh said into her.

He said it clearly. It came out muffled but it came out, and above him Luna went quiet for a second, which was how he knew she'd heard every word of it.

"Can't hear you," she said.

He said it again.

"Nope. Sorry. Nothing."

She was not going to take them back and she was not going to lift up, and that left him a problem to solve with both hands pinned. The first thing he solved was that if he pushed his chin toward his chest and worked his jaw sideways he could open a gap where the underside met his cheek and drag air in through it, hot and thick and tasting of her skin. It was enough. It was not comfortable and it was enough.

The second thing he solved was that his mouth was now already open.

He found a nipple with his tongue, took it in, and it was the only thing in the world he was able to do, so he did it constantly, and she made a noise above him and her arms shook once and did not let go.

*

Then something took his jeans off.

Both of her hands were still on his wrists. He could feel them, one around each, pressing down, thumbs on the inside of his forearms, and they did not move at any point. Something else undid his button. Something else drew the zipper down. Something else got hold of the waistband on both sides at once and pulled his jeans and his boxers off him in one long haul down his legs and off his feet, and it did all of it with more grip and more coordination than a hand, and he could not see it and could not work out from the feel of it what it was.

It had come out of her somewhere. That was as far as he got.

"Don't worry about it," Luna said.

He was going to worry about it.

Then she settled her hips down onto him and he stopped.

He was hard and had been for a long time, and she put herself down flat along him so that the whole length of his cock was pressed up between them against the front of her, against smooth warm skin with nothing on it and nothing under it, and she rocked once, slowly, and dragged him along it.

There was nothing there either.

He registered that somewhere behind everything else. Skin, unbroken, hot, closed. She rocked again and he felt it against every inch of him and there was no opening anywhere in her at all.

Then, under him, the skin came apart.

Her pussy opened along its length while his cock was lying against it. He felt the seam start and run. He felt the two sides draw back off him and the heat come out of the gap, and he felt it get deep and get wet in the same second. Nothing was being uncovered. She was building a pussy, right then, around his cock, and it arrived already as hot as the inside of her.

"Did you just—" Josh said, into a mouthful of her.

"Mhm."

"Did you just grow—"

"A fresh one's always better." She was already lifting up and finding the angle. "Every time. First hour is the best it ever is. Technically that makes me a virgin again, so."

He opened his mouth to argue with that.

He got as far as understanding that there was no argument available, that it was not a claim about anything, that she had simply found a way to be a virgin as often as she liked and there was no part of it he could take hold of, and while he was busy with that she took his cock in one hand, stood it up, put the head of it against the pussy she had made about nine seconds earlier, and sat down on it in one go.

All of it. One movement, no easing into anything, and it closed around him from base to tip in a single second and Josh screamed into her chest and nobody heard it.

"Oh," said Luna, above him, in a completely different voice. "Okay. Yeah, that's — that's the good one. That's why I do that."

*

Then she started, and she did not build up to it, because she never does.

She fucked him hard from the first stroke, lifting most of the way off him and dropping her whole weight back down, and every drop did two things at once. It went into him and it landed on his face. The mass on top of him bounced with her, the whole soft heavy load of it lifting off his mouth on the way up and coming back down flat across him at the bottom of every stroke, and the two impacts arrived at the same instant, every single time.

Cock. Face. Cock. Face.

He kept the nipple. That was the only decision he was still capable of making. Everything else was hers.

She was loud. That was new. In two weeks he had never heard her be loud, and now she was, right above him, unedited, saying yes and there and his name once, and her hands had come off his wrists at some point without him noticing and were braced on the mattress instead, and her rhythm had stopped being even.

She came the first time about a minute in.

He knew it before she said anything, because everything around his cock went tight and stayed tight and pulsed, hard, a dozen times, gripping and letting go and gripping, and at the same moment the whole weight on his face came down and stopped moving and pinned him flat, and her stomach locked against his, and she made a long low sound with her mouth shut. She kept him inside her all the way through it. He could not see any of it. He got the entire thing through the skin of his face and the length of his cock and he came very close to going with her right there.

Then she started again, immediately, at the same speed.

"Don't you dare," she said. "I'm not finished."

She came a second time maybe two minutes after that, faster and harsher than the first one, and this one she was noisy for, and she did not stop moving through it at all, just got sloppier and heavier and drove down through the whole thing while it was happening to her.

By then Josh had nothing left.

It started low, dragging up out of his thighs, everything pulling in and tightening, and he tried to warn her with a mouth full of her nipple and no air behind it and what came out was a hard sound in his throat.

She felt the rest of it anyway.

She did not slow down and she did not lift her weight off his face.

He came inside her, blind, smothered, with her tits across his mouth and her whole weight coming down on him, and it came out of his cock in five hard shoves, one after another, each one dragging up through him and out into her, and she rode straight through all five without changing her rhythm by anything at all, so not one of them got to finish before the next drop landed.

His back came off the bed. His hands closed on her ribs hard enough to leave something. The fifth was small and it hurt and she took that one too, and then she went down flat onto him and came a third time with him still going soft inside her, shaking, swearing quietly into the pillow beside his head.

Then she stopped, and sat up, and stayed.

*

He did not let go of the nipple.

There was nothing deliberate about it. His mouth was where his mouth was and he was some way past being able to change that, so he kept working it, soft now, slow, sucking at it while his legs shook and his heart came down and the room came back in around the edges.

"Josh."

He kept going.

"Josh. I'm getting off you."

He kept going.

"Oh, for—" and she took them back.

She pulled both boobs in at once and she did it fast, back down through every stage she'd spent twenty minutes climbing. The weight went first. Then the size, the undersides drawing up and in, the width narrowing, all of it going back into her chest until there was nothing left but the ordinary small pair of tits she walks around the flat with.

And Josh came up with it. His mouth had a nipple in it and the nipple went home and his head went with the nipple, lifted off the mattress and reeled up through the air by the mouth until his face was flat against her chest again, exactly where this started, still sucking.

Luna looked down at the top of his head.

"You're not letting go," she said.

He was not.

She made a face. He didn't see it. It was the face of somebody deciding to try something.

And then, in his mouth, the nipple did something.

He could not have said what. It was a nipple, and then for about half a second it was not the right shape anymore, and something moved across the flat of his tongue, small and firm and travelling sideways, turning, warm, smooth, and it went around once against the roof of his mouth and stopped.

Josh let go so fast he cracked the back of his head on the mattress.

"Ha," Luna said. "Knew it."

"What was that."

"Nothing."

"Luna, what was that—"

"Told you not to bite." She was already off the bed and picking his jeans up off the floor with two fingers. "Bring the phone."

He lay there a while with the taste of her still on him, running his tongue around the inside of his own mouth, trying to make a shape he had no name for happen again.

*

He read the phone at the kitchen table, later, with the iPad still lit up beside it on the same half-inked page it had been on at four o'clock.

WHAT JOSH LIKES
face — mine. not discussing it. (said it was "already right." wrote that down twice)
hair — doesnt matter. said doesnt matter x3
eyes — nothing. tried 6 colours + 2 different at once. said "nice" twice
hands — 6 fingers. said "cool." not scared of the nails either. NOT SCARED OF ME AT ALL, look into this
height — 6'3. said doesnt matter x1. WAS LOOKING AT MY CHEST WHEN HE SAID IT

Under that, six more headings with nothing written after them.

skin —
waist —
ass —
legs —
mouth —
inside —

And under those, on its own, in capitals, taking up more room than everything above it put together:

IT'S BOOBS

"It's not just—"

"It's in the comic," Luna said. She had his cereal bowl and was eating out of it standing up. "That's the annoying part. It was in there the whole time and I read past it twice."

"What are you—"

"First two hundred pages." She pointed at him with the spoon. "Boobs. Every page. Boobs in panels that do not need them, boobs in the establishing shots, a woman standing in a kitchen and the whole panel is boobs. Then about page three hundred it starts thinning out, and by five hundred you're doing tails and wings and hands and six different girls and it's balanced, and that's where I've been reading all fortnight, because that's where it gets good."

Josh didn't say anything.

"Why did it change," she said.

"...People started paying."

"There it is." She went back to the bowl. "First two hundred pages, nobody was watching and you drew what you actually wanted. Then you got an audience and you started drawing them a range. Six years covering it up."

"That's not—"

"How big were they on page one?"

"I don't remember."

"Yes you do."

He did remember. He told her. She put the bowl down and did it, right there at the counter, the whole front of her filling and rising in one smooth run until it matched, and then she looked down at herself and pulled a face.

"That's not even the good size."

"It was for page one."

"It's a starter size."

"I was twenty-two."

"What about page forty."

He told her page forty. She did page forty, which took longer, and then stood there with her hands on her hips carrying it and made him tell her page ninety, and after that neither of them said one word about eyes, or hair, or hands, or the six blank headings still open on the phone, which stayed face up on the table between them for the rest of the evening with nobody adding anything to it.

The page did not get finished that day either.