This is Old

"I'd sew your buttons for you," he said as he fingered the empty space behind her ear. She couldn't tell if this tickled or annoyed her, but she must have made disgruntled look because he quickly retreated his hand. Smoke crept steadily up from her neglected Nat Sherman. "I know how to sew" she lied. The last two buttons hung pathetically off of her once five-button petticoat. You used to be so full. She was an acquaintance to minor wardrobe malfunctions: stilettos breaking, shoes mysteriously disappearing (but just one) and of course the sempiternal thread hanging from every article of clothing. When he wasn't looking she ripped the loose thread of her lost buttons from her petticoat.

Sharon caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her face had not changed, but she felt re-(insert verb here). Why so fresh? She is a pampered girl, but far from indulgent. It is the little occurrences and lingering sartoris on which Sharon dwells. Memories to stash in her pocket to snack on later. A last drag on her cigarette and she looks not at him, but herself through his eyes. Nothing she didn't already know. When one is so vain it is only rises to the skin like helium, fills a balloon and eventually diffuses to those around them.

She took his hand and put his middle finger in her mouth. The pit of his stomach stirred. Secretly he was a little worried he forgot to wash his hands using the bathroom.