Member-only story
Requiem For a Bra
Saying goodbye to defying gravity
A woman walks into a bedroom and opens a bra drawer. She selects the top garment before her. It is a bra in name only.
A beige band-aid shade of fabric meets vaguely supportive crop top, it looks like something Aunt Lydia from The Handmaid’s Tale would approve of with one of her trademark tuts.
Unlike every underwired, scratchy, constricting torture device known to man, it has come to serve at the pleasure of its mistress.
Inside the bra drawer, there is discord in the overcrowded ranks.
“What the hell — her AGAIN?” protests Pale Aqua Floral Bra, who was sold as the most “comfortable” bra ever, which actually meant one hour of comfort and eight hours of the usual smushed, hoiked boob torture.
“I know right, such a basic bitch!” intones Black Lace Push-Up. “I have been shoved back here in this corner for over a year — I think there is dust underneath me! Doesn’t she understand fabric care?!”
White T-Shirt Bra pipes in “Look gang, sucks to be us right now but she’ll be back for me before long — I heard her say she has a dentist appointment next week, and those middle-aged bazooms aren’t going to lift themselves up to perky t-shirt levels alone now, are they?!”
