The Pink Bra Diaries
VA WISWELL

Monday 8 pm, September 14, 2037

Journal,

The peanut butter was in the refrigerator again. I found it when I got my

creamer for my coffee, sitting in the center of the second shelf, looking unapologetic like it was right where it belonged.

I rarely eat peanut butter. It’s a food I keep for emergencies, like a natural

disaster or prolonged illness. Even if it were on my regular menu, I wouldn’t store it in the refrigerator.

Eight hours post-discovery, I’m no closer to understanding how it got

there. I would love to blame someone else. Unfortunately, when you live alone, inside seven hundred square feet of apartment, except for your cats—though adorable in their round fuzziness, not exactly criminal masterminds—denial isn’t an option. Not without sounding insane. Or paranoid. 

Can a person be one and not the other (question to ponder later)?
Sickening, though, the mystery of it.      

 

Noon Somewhere, Friday, April 13, 2035

“Hey, there. I was starting to worry. Did you miss your train?” 
“No, I stopped at the drug to pick up a few things for our trip.”  
“A few? You know, I’m pretty sure the hotel is fully stocked.” 
“Funny. You’ll thank me when you need floss or chemical-free

sunscreen.” 

“Is that what’s in the bag you’re hiding under your coat, Viv—floss?”
“Nothing gets past you.” 
“Not when the bag says Kelsey’s Boutique. That’s the little place on the

corner with the window mannequins dressed in lacey panties.”

“Ahh... right.”
“Did you buy some panties for our trip?” 
“The eyebrow lift? Really, Jeb?” 
“Come on, open the bag. Let me have a peek.”
“If I do, will you stop saying panties?” 
“Deal.”
             “Well?”
“I need more information, like to see them on.” 
“Sorry, Florida viewing only—if even then. They were so expensive, I’m

tempted to put them in a case. We can gaze at them from afar.”

“What was the damage?”
“A hundred and twenty-three dollars—”
“Wow.”
“That was for the bra. Another seventy-five for the bottoms.” 
“That’s a lot for lacey shoestrings.”
“I know, but I figured, why not? How often do we get to go on a Florida

vacation.”

“I have a hunch it will be money well spent.” 
“All right, settle down. We don’t leave for another five days.”
“The official countdown has begun.”
“I’m looking forward to a change in scenery, figuratively and literally.”
“Figuratively?”
“I love this city, but after thirty-two years, all of it gets a little old.”
“Yeah...”
             “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Viv, I have something to tell you.” 
“Now there’s a statement that changes the mood.”
“I should have told you weeks ago. It’s…”
“Fuck, Jeb, out with it already. I’m starting to sweat.”
“I took the job. There, I said it. Finally.”
“Wait. Back up. What job?” 
“The transfer. An opportunity came up in June. I applied and was

selected. 
                       —Viv, don’t just stare at me. Say something. Yell. Swear. Anything.”

“Okay. How about, how could you do this without talking to me? You

know how I feel about—"

“If I’d said anything, you would have talked me out of it.”
“Exactly! Everything, our life, our families, is here.”
“At least hear my side.”
“What does it matter? You’ve already agreed to go. We both know if you

back out, they’ll fire you. Then what?”

“Viv, I did this for us.”
“Us? The transfer is for you, right?” 

“Can you lower your voice? We don’t need everyone in the bar to know

our plans.”

 “I think you mean your plans.”
“Look around. Everyone who can leave is leaving.”
“That’s not true. The news outlets say whatever to get the most viewers.”
“In a few years, the only people here will be those who waited too long.”
“So, that’s it. You’re abandoning ship?”
“It’s not like that.”
“We agreed that staying was the right choice—fight the good fight,

remember?”

“We never agreed. It’s all you would hear.”
“So, I bullied you?”
“I would love to stay. It’s the how that stumps me.”

“The how? We don’t leave, that’s how.”
“Viv, the resource crisis isn’t improving. It’s harder and harder to get the

basics.  And I see you have your sun hat. It’s April. What you should be carrying is an umbrella, but it hasn’t rained in six months.”
          “Our lives are here, Jeb.” 
          “Viv, it’s time to leave.”

Tuesday 8 am, September 15, 2037

Journal,

Depression is the Word of the Day. The more I think, the worse I feel. My

life is unraveling. I can’t keep pretending it isn’t. 
          If it was only the peanut butter or mishaps like my keys turning up weirdly or vanishing altogether, I could blame it on stress and the usual distractions—and there’s the news, the endless cycle of dread—crime is up, population is down, the sky is falling, taking up real estate in my brain—but it’s not.  More serious things (“events,” as I call them) that I’ve avoided writing in my journal for fear of making them real are happening. 

It’s time to put on my big girl pants. Denial only gives power to whatever

forces (psychological break, aliens, paranormal phenomenon?) are at play. So, fear be damned, here I go:

Last week I found my old running sneakers, sneakers I donated to a

charity months ago, in my bathroom cabinet. I went to restock the toilet paper, and (surprise) there they were, scuffed leather trim, soles mimicking the pattern of my pronation. Mine, undeniably. How they got there, I haven’t a clue. 

Then there’s Jeb’s mug. After he left, I boxed up what was left of his

things and stored them in the hall closet. Last Tuesday, almost two years later, his I Love Rockets coffee mug found its way out of the taped box and back into the kitchen. If it had been in the cabinet with the other mugs (three), I’d believe it had been there all along (thought I packed it, didn’t…). It wasn’t. It was on the counter, right next to the coffee maker, waiting for me when I came into the kitchen at seven-thirty.  

Strange and weird? Yes. Inexplicable? No. 

It’s this next “event” that causes me to double-check the front door lock

before going to bed.

Okay (deep breath), here I go.   

Staticky voice messages that sound like they’re being transmitted from the

moon bounce regularly into my phone. It isn’t so much what they say that is strange, or maybe it is; all I can make out is my name (which, how do they know?).  Strange(er) is that the messages come from Jeb’s old cell—the phone I turned off because he had no use for it where he was going. 

I put his phone in the box with his other things (I Love Rockets coffee

mug, for example), taped it shut, and shoved it into the hall closet. The phone is still there, in the box. I know because I cut the tape open with the Swiss Army Knife he gave me and checked. Dead battery and no service. 

The phone messages raise the stakes. They are undeniable and open a

door I don’t want to walk through. Especially when considered alongside another change (my hand shakes as I write this) I’ve noticed while at work. 

During a client call a few weeks ago, I couldn’t remember a line in a

conversation I’ve recited a thousand times over the last four years. 

Wait (deep breath), there’s more. I didn’t simply forget a line. I forgot the

whole conversation, why I was having it, with whom… It was like I (I don’t want to write this) forgot who I was. It was terrifying. It is terrifying. 

Three times since, I’ve been overwhelmed by a sense of drifting, like a

helium balloon, or (worse) splitting into two entirely different people. Minutes (I know because the call times are logged) later, I find myself staring at my monitor, the call disconnected with no idea what happened. When Meg asks about my dropped calls, I explain it away on a bad connection. She knows it’s an excuse and won’t keep nodding along for much longer. 

The possibility I am losing myself wrecks me. I can’t help but think of my

mother. She was a capable lawyer, mother, and wife. Then, in a blink, her mind turned against her; a calm sea became a turbulent ocean. 

By her measure, I’m too old. The first signs of her battle began in her late

twenties. At thirty-four, shouldn’t my sail have broken already? Isn’t that how our future is decided: genetics, time, and luck?  

It’s petty, but I find it unfair—she had my father to guide her to shore

when she drifted. Who do I have? Not my own children. Not Erin and Mike. They left the first chance they got. Jeb was my person. Now who will moor my line if I become untethered? 

I wish I could close my eyes and wish it all away. Wish-making, I’ve

learned, is useless. All I can do is record the “events” as they occur and hold tightly to the reliability of my handwriting. If I am becoming my mother, at least there’s a chance someone will read my words and recognize the route of my departure. 

Tuesday 6 pm, September 15, 2037

​

Today wasn’t awful. I made it through work without Meg messaging me

to ask if I was “okay.”

During a long call with a client about her back surgery claim, I started to

drift. I didn’t give in. I typed out our conversation, word for word, as it was spoken. It worked. The words anchored me to the present. Maybe I’m on to something. 

Tuesday 9 pm, September 15, 2037

I’m going for it—The Pin Test. I promised myself I would conduct the

test twice a month. It might as well be tonight. My success at work (and the wine with dinner) has bolstered my confidence. 

—The sewing needle is clean; I’m ready. Now (deep breath) comes the

hard part. Not because of the pain. I find the pain reassuring; it confirms I still exist— more importantly, I know I still exist. What scares me is not recognizing the location of the prick on my body. 

On the count of three…    

Success! I felt it!  As soon as the needle pricked my upper arm, I knew

where the pain was coming from.

One more time...

Right again! I identified my thigh as the spot being pricked without any

hesitation. 

Things are turning around! Maybe it was a phase, my mind behaving

strangely as a sort of coping mechanism. I have been through a lot—Jeb, then my mother passing, living here alone. 

I am one hundred percent fine with it all being imagined if it is behind

me. 

Of course, there are still the phone messages. 
 

Wednesday 10 am, September 16, 2037

Journal, 

I opened my underwear drawer this morning for, well, underwear.

Carefully placed in the front was a pink bra. 

A bra I’ve never seen before. 
A bra I’ve no memory of purchasing. 
More curious than frightened (it was new and pretty), I pulled it out. 
Dangling from the side panel on a white thread was the price tag—one

hundred and twenty-three dollars! 

At first, I was shocked; who pays a hundred and twenty-three dollars for a

bra? Then I was frightened. The spendthrift was me—who else was there?     

To keep from crying, I ran to the bathroom and dowsed my face with ice-

cold water. The bra proved last night’s pin test success, and my triumph at work wasn’t a corner being turned. 

The cold water stopped my tears. It did nothing to stop the gaping mouth

of my disappointment from swallowing me. These strange “events” weren’t imagined; they weren’t a phase.

After a good thirty minutes of sulking, I pulled myself together and did

the only thing I could do: removed my PJ top and put the bra on. It was tight around my ribs. The straps strangled my shoulders. It fit like it was purchased for a different version of my body. I checked the tag: 34b—wrong size; a complete waste of one hundred and twenty-three dollars.

When I released the clasp to take it off, a wild thought came to me: What

if the bra isn’t more proof I’ve been dealt the same shitty hand as my mother? 

What if the bra is, in fact, for another version of me—a me who struts

about without sneakers and mugs turning up weirdly, without rogue phone messages popping up, donning a perfectly-sized 34b pink bra, content and complete in her world? 

What if this ridiculously expensive pink bra explains everything?  

 I can’t lie; right then, joy erupted from every cell in my body. My hands

shot over my head. The happiest noise these apartment walls have heard in nearly two years, a triumphant Woohoo! filled the room. 

Twelve hours later, no longer high on the fumes of hope, I’m

embarrassed. My willingness (desperation) to believe I exist in some alternate universe speaks to my (dilapidated) emotional state. 

There is only one of me, and she lives here, alone in this apartment,

surrounded by things she can’t explain.

Thursday 8 am, September 17, 2038

Journal,

I woke before six with a terrible headache. I blame it on yesterday’s foolish

excitement. Two years of isolation have made adrenaline the enemy.   

In no mood to work, I walked past my computer, made a cup of Earl

Grey, and sat at my window, looking at the outside world. 

For a full hour, I waited and watched. Not one human passed on the

street below. Six am to eight is the morning rush, with people crowding the streets and sidewalks, with cars, cabs, and trains everywhere. Not anymore, I guess.  

Witnessing the desolation was disheartening. The news outlets aren’t

lying. 

Thinking I could stay and keep everything the same was naive. Jeb was

right. I’ve stayed, and everything is different.    

          I feel sick. 

Thursday 10 am, September 17, 2038

​

I took a long, hot shower. It helped.  The steam loosened my thoughts,

softened my fear. When I got out, instead of putting on my usual beige underwire, I grabbed the lacy pink bra, clipped the tag, and put it on. 

Even as I write this (ill-fitting pink bra on), I can’t explain why I did it. 

Call it a placebo effect, the power of suggestion, or plain stupidity, but with the bra on, I feel better. Stronger. Determined. 

Yes, the rational (sane) me understands what the surprise arrival of the bra

means and its (neurological) implications. The other me, the one who threw her hands up and let out a joyful Woohoo! insists the bra means something else entirely. 

Is it dangerous and likely regrettable to let my guard down and follow the

hopeful (delusional?) me? Yes. 

Am I doing it anyway? Yes.
I can’t give in. Not yet. Not while I still have time.

I will stay (become) positive and focus on what I know is real. Despite

what my bedroom window claims, I am not in this city alone. I speak with other humans over the phone daily and share my building with humans I talk to regularly—humans who, I’m confident, exist. 

There’s Mrs. Charman, two doors down and across the hall. She bakes

cookies with repurposed chocolate and has two cats. The cats are our common ground. We make cat-chat when we run into each other on the way to the disposal. 

And Mr. McKinsey. He lives upstairs and has four grandchildren who

visit on the holidays. He loves to relay the funny things they say whenever we meet in the stairwell or on the way to the courtyard. 

There is also Janice, the nurse. She goes to work every day at the hospital.

I see her leaving in her scrubs for her evening shift when I pick up my groceries from the delivery bay on Tuesdays. We always exchange hellos.

These are good people. Not criminals or anarchists like the news outlets

say. Like me, they’re solid citizens who stayed because they couldn’t afford or bear to leave. I have to hang on to this, use it as a buoy to assuage my fear, and solidify my conviction. 
   
Thursday 12 pm, September 18, 2037

Journal,  

I’m going outside today. I’ve made up my mind.  I have to. It’s the

obvious next step. If I don’t start living; there was no reason to stay, no reason to abandon Jeb’s dream. 

I’m excited and afraid, terrified, really. To prepare for my (I hope)

adventure, I considered writing down my fears, a no-nonsense list, to get them out of my head. It is a good idea on paper (ha!), but I would read the list over and over and turn my fears into cement blocks.

Alternatively, I will maintain a calm, well-organized mind by breathing

deeply (even though it is useless) and pushing out negative thoughts. I am also doing my best (even as I write this) to keep my hands from shaking. I’ll be safer if my fear doesn’t show. Containment, I’ve decided, is my best friend.  

Truth? I want to hide in the closet. I have everything I need right here.

Going beyond the boundaries of my building seems foolhardy.  

Stop (deep breath) giving in to fear!   

I put myself in this position. Over the last two years, I’ve conveniently

forgotten this small (enormous) detail.  

Lots of people said goodbye to loved ones after the last Relocation. They

didn’t stop living.    

I could have kept up with my routine and returned to the office. According to Meg, the office is still full—people working away in their cubicles, heads down at their desks.    

Things got away from me. Every night, I told myself, Tomorrow, go back

tomorrow. Then, I blinked, and now look, nearly two years have sailed by, and here I am, alone in my apartment, listening to the horror show on the news with my cats staring at me suspiciously.   

It’s time to take action. My pink bra and I are going out. 
   

Thursday, 7 pm, September 18, 2037

Journal,  

I fed the cats and put out an extra bowl of food and water, just in case.    

I decided to wear one of Jeb’s favorites, my black slip dress. Why not,

right? I am, after all, doing this for him, at least in part. Of course, I have my pink bra, or as I’ve started calling it, my Wonder Woman Underwear, on underneath the dress.     

I’m not worried (ha!).  Everything will be fine. People still go outside.    

As a precaution, I left a note on Mrs. Charman’s door requesting that if I don’t knock by noon tomorrow, she please ask the landlord to enter my apartment. The thought of my sweet George and Charlie withering away, forgotten and alone in this awful apartment, is too much. Mrs. Charman will take care of them. She loves cats.    

No more stalling. Wish me luck!
                     

 #   

 

My jacket was a mistake. Even with the breeze, it is warm—a perfect

evening for a walk. Now I’m stuck, looking obvious, carrying the puffy jacket.  

I swear there is a hint of jasmine in the air. It makes me think of Jeb and

our vacation to Florida. In my mind, I can see us sitting on the porch of our rented beach bungalow, surrounded by the salty ocean air and the sweetness of Jasmine. 

Inside the train station, it’s hot and stuffy. Gone are the warm breeze and

the Jasmine.  My nose burns from burnt oil and old urine. Luckily, I won’t have to hold my breath for long. I can hear the train chugging toward my stop.  

Though the only one waiting, I edge closer to the boarding ramp—once a

commuter, always a commuter.    

In four stops, I’ll be at the bar Jeb and I used to frequent. According to

their website, they’re still open. The bartender, Rick, was a friend of sorts. I have no idea if Rick still works there. He might have left with the last Relocation or quit for something better. Or for nothing at all.        

Like with so many things, after Jeb left the bar and Rick fell from my

memory. Somehow, the pink bra has made me remember.   

A wind from nowhere kicks up my dress and spins my hair into a mini

tornado. I brush it out of my eyes in time to see the head of the train emerging from around the curve, barreling toward me.    

The screech of metal stabs at my ears.    

A flash of white light blinds me.

I can’t see.  

Or hear. 

I put my hands over my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. 
                   

   #
   

Walking was the right decision. The train would have been a shoulder-to-

shoulder can of oniony-smelling humans. Besides, it is a gorgeous night—why not enjoy it?    

Outside the bar, the sign's glow spills onto the sidewalk, turning the

cement into a mosaic of white, yellow, and black. A hundred times here, and still, the Noon Somewhere font makes me think of the beer mugs my dad kept in the glass cabinet in our dining room, all that was left, he used to say, of his grandfather and his Irish heritage.     

Excited as a child released from a long grounding, I yank open the doors,

eager to be swept away by the tumult of human activity inside the bar.    

Warm light and raucous laughter greet me—the wonderful mix of

hamburgers, hops, barley, and aftershave floods my nose.    

“Viv! Hey, it’s been a while. Great to see you.” 

“Rick! How have you been?"

“Pretty well. You?”   

“It’s a beautiful evening, and I’m about to have a beer at a favorite bar.

Can’t complain.”

“I’ll drink to that. Get seated. I’ll send a beer over on the house.”   

“Thanks.”   

“Anytime.”    

I weave through the crowd toward the table in the back corner where Jeb

and I used to sit. So many of the faces around me are familiar. I tick off parties, places, and friends in my mind. I can’t put a name to any of them.    

Our old table pokes out from behind a tall man in a Sonics jacket.   

It isn’t empty.    

It was childish to believe I could come here, sit at our table, and reimagine

a proper goodbye to Jeb. We said our goodbyes when he left after a week of not speaking. Nothing, not even a magical bra, can change that.     

I force the prick of tears down, pivot, and head back to the bar.    

I’m here—out of my apartment, around humans. That is something—a

first step. Sitting on a stool, catching up with Rick, beats making small talk with my cats.    

“Vivian?”
I stop mid-step.    

“Viv?”
I spin around, nearly bumping two people.     

“Sorry, Viv. I didn’t mean to shock you.”   

“Jeb? How are you here?”   

“My company sent me. They needed projects finished.”   

“When?”   

“Why don’t you sit, have some beer, and we’ll talk.”   

“I’m, I don’t know if there’s anything to say.”   

“Sit, please. I’ll do all of the talking.”    

“Uh, okay.”  

“Now that you’re here, I’m not sure where to start.”   

“What do you mean, Now that I’m here? How did you know I was

coming.”   

“I called the apartment and your cell. When you didn’t answer, I came

here, hoping you’d turn up.”   

“Wow, that’s…. We should order another round. This is going to be a

multi-beer conversation.”   

“Agreed.”   

“Well, you said you’d—”   

“Right. I…The truth is, Viv, I came back because of you. I’ve spent the last

eighteen months rehashing my decision. I was stupid to think in time, we would move on. At least I…. maybe you….”   

“No.”   

“No?”   

“It’s awful. I’m alone in our old apartment with the cats. This is the first

time, my first time—”  

“I’m sorry—about everything. I thought it was the right choice; I thought

you’d agree and apply for your visa.”   

“I was too stubborn. Admitting you were right meant admitting I was

wrong. You know I hate that.”  

“I should have done more to convince you. I told myself that I was

respecting your wishes. That was bullshit. You were so angry, I was afraid to push. I didn’t want you to blame me if it was a mistake.  I couldn’t face having you leave your family, your home, only to be miserable and alone in the middle of nowhere.”   

“You were right about Mike and Erin. They left weeks after Mom died.”  

“Yeah, my mother told me—it must have been tough.”
“I was angry. I don’t blame them anymore. They were right—to live their

lives for themselves.”   

“I’m here for six months. Then I have to go back. Let’s not make the same

mistake twice.”   

“How? Visas are harder than ever to get.” 

“Not for spouses and children.”   

“What are you saying, Jeb?”   

“What I should have said eighteen months ago. Let’s get married. We can

leave together when I go back in six months. Staying here—”  

“Won’t stop things from changing. As much as I want it to be, this isn’t

the city where I grew up.”

Friday 10 am, September 19, 2037

Journal,   

I woke up to a hammer pounding against my forehead. My back ached

like I’d spent the night hauling boxes at a factory. Worse, I wasn’t sure where I was. I skipped from one item to the next until I spotted my puffy jacket draped over my desk chair. For whatever reason, that old, ugly jacket brought me back into my life.    

Even then, safe in a room I knew was mine, everything felt strange and

alarmingly new.    

To calm myself, I went to my one constant: this journal, and flipped to my

last entry.   

I read the entry over and over. The handwriting was mine, undeniably,

but a stranger lived the story it told.  On and on, I went about my magical pink bra and the courage it gave me, how it led me to Noon Somewhere last night and to Jeb.   

The entry was pure lunacy.    

Last night, I sat on my couch, ate leftovers, watched Thelma and Louise

for the umpteenth time, and finished off a bottle of red. I’m sure because when I couldn’t stomach another read of Thursday’s entry, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water—no surprise, my dirty dishes were in the sink, and the wine bottle was in the bin.    

It was bad enough when my mind tricked me into believing random

objects and voicemails were appearing and disappearing, but this, Jeb(!) being here, us being together, is beyond cruel.    

And the bit about the pink bra magically transforming my life is complete

nonsense. I tossed that over-priced, undersized bra in the bin the day I found it. It went out with the trash pick-up on Wednesday. I didn’t wear it last night. Or any night.   

Every word I wrote is impossible. It has to be.    

I want it to be. I want this split, this knife cutting me into two halves, to

be imagined— nothing more than a desperate, broken mind attempting to heal itself.  And all of it could be, if not for this one thing (deep breath): taped to the page, right next to the entry, is a matchbook from Noon Somewhere. A shiny, unwrinkled, unused matchbook from a bar I haven’t set foot in since the night Jeb told me he was leaving. 

Noon Somewhere, Friday, April 13, 2035

  

“Will you just think about going? Give the idea a chance.”   

“I don’t want to go. That isn’t going to change?”   

“I get that, but do you want a real life?”   

“Excuse me?”   

“A house, a dog, a couple of kids…if you do, we need to go. You’ve read

the reports—live birth rates are at a historic low. Having a family here is a pipe dream. Yes, leaving will be hard, but it’s an opportunity to have the things we want.”

“Kids? You? Since when? You’ve always been against the idea.”   

“I’ve been against it here. If they have a chance at a real life …”  

“Daddy Jeb? Hmmill, I definitely like it.” 

“Cute. And I want the kids to call me Pa.”
“Let’s get out of here, Pa. I need some air. This is a lot to process.”    

“It is, you’re right.”   

“Sorry, can you repeat that? I think I misheard.”    

“Funny. You’re usually right, Viv, as much as I hate to admit it.”   

“Wow. You’re full of surprises tonight.”   

“Come on, grab your stuff, and let’s get out of here.”     

“Hat, coat, purse, lingerie. All good. Let’s go.”

“See, it’s warm but windy. You’re going to wish you had a coat, too.”   

“We can share yours. Take turns.”   

“Not a chance.”   

“Seriously, Viv. Thanks for giving this a chance.”   

“I haven’t—”   

“Said yes. I know. Thanks for considering it. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t

think it was our best, our only option.”   

“Come on, Pa, let’s cross before the light changes.
            —Damn it! My hat.”    

“I’ll get it.”   

“Jeb, wait. The light.”   

“I’ve got it. We can’t go to Florida without it.”    

“Jeb! You won’t make it!”