Amy took the old tea caddy down from the corner cupboard and dipped her long forefinger and thumb into the scree of buttons inside. Her husband Sam stood in his vest and underpants in the kitchen, sky blue shirt folded over his arm.
‘I’ll never find a match,’ said Amy, and poured the buttons onto the kitchen table. She spread them with her hand and scanned the blotted wave of colours and textures, picking up a bright blue disk, holding it to her eye, replacing it. ‘These buttons are the gravestones of a hundred blouses,’ she said, ‘but not a single one will fit your shirt. Sorry, love.’
Sam trudged out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Amy began to scoop up the buttons and tip them back into the caddy. Very quietly, mindful of Sam’s feelings, she said to herself, ‘Some things just can’t be mended.’
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