There are three zones inside my bra, spaces not taken by the actual designated bra occupants.
Zone #1 is to my lower left.
That's where the cellphone goes.
Zone #2 is in the middle.
That's where keys (and sometimes money) go.
Zone #3 is to the right.
That's where lipgloss goes.
So today, at a birthday party for 4 year olds, my phone is in it's usual Zone #1 and I get a call.
It's not great news, a friend had a computer stolen. After a short talk and a text, I shut the phone off and return it to its warm nest.
The group of sweating parents keep scooting our chairs, leaning into the elusive shade, sweltering in the mid-day July humidity of a sunny windless afternoon.
I reach into my bra for my phone, which doubles as a clock, to check the time and gauge how much longer until I can dive into a cool shower and finish grading exams.
The phone stays dark, even when I hit buttons.
I click, tap, and shake it.
I turn it on, turn it off, blow on it.
Later, at home, I get one call. The screen works fine, I know who is calling, but I can't answer it.
The keys don't work.
It is quite dead, or at the very least, stunned and unresponsive.
This phone has walked with me through about 15 crazy months, but I am not attached to it because that is not my nature.
Already, I imagine writing its obituary -- Cause of death: smothered by boobs.