They met at a quiet café, the kind where secrets feel safer between coffee cups and half-finished meals. One blonde leaned in, cheeks flushed, and admitted she was getting a boob job. Her friend nodded, supportive, unshocked. They were used to sharing everything—insecurities, exes, late-night breakdowns. But then the other blonde, almost bored, mentioned she was having her arsehole bleached, like she was talking about a manicure.
The air snapped. Forks paused mid-air. The first blonde stared, horrified, her brain sprinting in the wrong direction. Bleached meant hair. Always had. She imagined her friend’s boyfriend, legs in stirrups at a salon, foils and peroxide in the most unthinkable place. Her confusion spilled out as a question, painfully sincere and unintentionally vicious. In that instant, their laughter became unstoppable—because some misunderstandings can never, ever be unheard.
