Abstract Love

She never thought a cancer diagnosis would lead her to love . . . Call them what you will. Breasts, boobs, jugs, melons, honkers, hooters, cans. I was never one of those women who was going to be defined by the size of my boobs. But at the thought of losing them to cancer at age twenty-four, suddenly they are front and center. So to speak. So, now I live my life by the numbers. Ninety-three—the percent chance I will survive the five-year mark. Thirteen—the number of cycles of chemotherapy I must endure. Sixty-five—the percent chance I will lose my hair. But the day he walks in for chemo is the day my world changes. He single-handedly takes one of the scariest things either of us has ever faced in life and makes it better … tolerable … dare I even say … fun. He’s unlike any man I’ve ever known. Generous, witty, talented, and smart. He has vision—vision that for some inexplicable reason, we seem to share through the paintings of his abstract art. What we share, however, seems to go beyond cancer and art. And we soon come to find we have a connection much deeper than either of us can begin to comprehend.