"Undoing" - Coraline
She hated hated hated the stupid school uniform. From sixth grade all the way up to twelfth, everyone was wrapped up in the same gruel-colored sweaters and dull brown shoes. She hated the skirt, hated the pants even more, and despised with ever fiber of her being the collared blouses.
But she loved the boys' shirts.
Specifically, she loved Wybie's shirts.
Specifically, she loved unbuttoning Wybie's shirts.
When they were fifteen and her birthday was a teasing week away, she leaned over him, the old couch creaking under their weight, and slipped each button free of it buttonhole. They were off-white - not glossy black - but she still got a thrill from it, as much as she did from Wybie's warm skin and surprised-open mouth. And they were smaller - probably only an inch across - but she still could practically feel the Other World shiver, like Wybie did when she popped the last button out. And they had two holes - not four - but she still grinned in triumph.
When they were seventeen and her parents were gone to a writers convention, she made fists in his shirt and yanked, and the buttons went flying helter skelter across the room and clattered on the floor. She found two later, partially hidden by the rug's fringe, and crouched down to inspect them. For one horrible second, the buttons were big and black with thread jutting out of their four holes like fingers. She slammed her hand over them and when her heart slowly returned to its normal rhythm, she pealed her palm from the floor and exhaled a long breath; they were just ordinary, off-white, small, two holed buttons. She stood up and stuffed them in her pocket. Maybe she'd sew them back on Wybie's shirt for him.
Maybe.
She hated hated hated the stupid school uniform. From sixth grade all the way up to twelfth, everyone was wrapped up in the same gruel-colored sweaters and dull brown shoes. She hated the skirt, hated the pants even more, and despised with ever fiber of her being the collared blouses.
But she loved the boys' shirts.
Specifically, she loved Wybie's shirts.
Specifically, she loved unbuttoning Wybie's shirts.
When they were fifteen and her birthday was a teasing week away, she leaned over him, the old couch creaking under their weight, and slipped each button free of it buttonhole. They were off-white - not glossy black - but she still got a thrill from it, as much as she did from Wybie's warm skin and surprised-open mouth. And they were smaller - probably only an inch across - but she still could practically feel the Other World shiver, like Wybie did when she popped the last button out. And they had two holes - not four - but she still grinned in triumph.
When they were seventeen and her parents were gone to a writers convention, she made fists in his shirt and yanked, and the buttons went flying helter skelter across the room and clattered on the floor. She found two later, partially hidden by the rug's fringe, and crouched down to inspect them. For one horrible second, the buttons were big and black with thread jutting out of their four holes like fingers. She slammed her hand over them and when her heart slowly returned to its normal rhythm, she pealed her palm from the floor and exhaled a long breath; they were just ordinary, off-white, small, two holed buttons. She stood up and stuffed them in her pocket. Maybe she'd sew them back on Wybie's shirt for him.
Maybe.