It’s the most beautiful shirt in the world to me: black, strapless, and with the most delicate strip of lace cascading down the front into a rose appliqué
at the hem. I got it at a tiny independent boutique in China last year, which makes it a practically one-of-one garment in New York. I love that it’s stretchy and cinches me in, but that snatch is a double-edged sword. The only way the shirt can achieve such elasticity is by being made entirely of synthetic fibers, which, I’ve been told lately, are going to kill me.
