Three Articles of Clothing I Decided to Keep
by Meghan Lamb
Full-Length Binder
I bought this on a bad day, on a crowded train. I was pushed up against a steel pole, and shifting in pair of pointed heels. My underwire, digging into me. Chest heavy, waterlogged. I dreamed of shedding all these stiff bits, looking sleek and streamlined.
About a week later, it came. I ripped the bag open with both hands. Swiftly stripped. Stood, cold and awkward, by the mirror. The binder, flat, black, with a strange sheen, like a bathing suit. It looked a little small for me. It smelled like hairspray.
It was a lot of work to get it on. The flesh and fabric fought against each other, and my hands hurt, by the time I pulled it into place.
I stood back to regard my transformation.
It was nothing much.
I looked like what I was: a woman in a tank top.
I’ve never worn it out. There wouldn’t be much point. It isn’t tight enough to wear, without a bra. Too tight to wear with one. It hangs, forgotten, at the far end of my closet. Hardly ever noticed. Hardly ever touched.
But every now and then, when searching for a dress, a basic button-down, a nervous little work skirt, I will find it.
An accidental brush. An accidental handshake with the fantasy of flat tits, fluid movement. Sleek and streamlined.
Vintage-Style Longline Bra with Black Lace Garter Panties
I bought this for a photo shoot I never did. My husband and our two close friends discussed it, on and off, and on. At first, it was a joke: a lighthearted scenario, a joke-y version of a real fantasy. But this thing went as these things go: the joke scenario became a plan. The plan took on a shape, accumulated little textures, like a Virgin Hotel room (yes, chosen for the name), a bottle of whiskey, no, Scotch, no, bourbon, no, yes, no…
I scrolled through lingerie sites, zooming in to see the details. How high were those high rise panties? How sheer was that open weave? Would that half-cup bra with the scalloped edges scoop my tits in place, or slip away, leaving me unsupported and exposed? I chose this pointed vintage-style longline bra, these corset-style girdle-garter panties, because they felt safe. No spilling over, nothing falling out of place, and no revealing what I didn’t want revealed.
A date was set, but the hotel was never purchased. A few texts, like, looking forward to it, so excited, back and forth. But by the week the date was set, I had my period. I was in pain. The date was pushed back, then pushed back again.
Eventually, we stopped texting, looking forward to it. Started texting, we should do this, which became, sometime, someday.
And so, the longline vintage-style bra and matching garter panties are still waiting in my closet, in a garment bag.
Every few months, I take them out and try them on again. I stand before the mirror, shifting left, and right. Adjusting straps, adjusting light. Adjusting to the shape, the feel of the fabric. Squinting, sucking in, and taking inventory.
Cowl-Neck Tunic Sweater
I chose this sweater on a movie night. Our friends were coming over, and I wasn’t sure how casually I should dress. These friends tend to arrive in different states of dress-up, wearing things that interest me, but feel difficult to comment on. Our female friend arrived wearing a short skirt with pair of thigh-high socks. (Not stockings: socks, and this choice seemed intentional.) I wasn’t sure what her intention was. I thought she might be showing off her thigh tattoos. Her thigh tattoos were nice.
During the movie, I kept glancing at her sock foot, moving toward my husband’s sock foot. Close enough to be aware of it—Was he aware of it?—then closer, close enough to feel it—Did he feel it?—then, closer. Sock toes, brushing. Rubbing. Curling, and uncurling.
It was one of those moments where you feel the opposite of deja vu. I noticed things that I had never thought about before. Like, for example, how the cowl neck of my sweater had a small hole where the tag was torn. This hole began to itch.
Today, it’s cold. I wear the sweater with a puffer coat. My husband and I go to peel stickers from the bumper of our dying car.
He sprays the adhesive remover.
We should let it sit, he says.
We let it sit.
Smelling cold smog, chemical orange.
Meghan Lamb is the author of Mirror Translation (Blamage Books, 2025), COWARD (Spuyten Duyvil, 2022), Failure to Thrive (Apocalypse Party, 2021), All of Your Most Private Places (Spork Press, 2020), and Silk Flowers (Birds of Lace, 2017). Her work has also appeared in Quarterly West, DIAGRAM, Redivider, and Passages North, among other publications. She currently teaches creative writing through the University of Chicago, Story Studio, and GrubStreet. She is an editor for the magazine Always Crashing and curator of the Always Crashing Reading and Performance Series.