I sew a couple buttonholes then my eyes haze over. A delirium hatches and parts the button’s lips–lips balmless and cracked from uneven thread spacing. I shove a key in the keyhole buttonhole, but the fibers speak around it in a spittle of soft, bare wefts. A spray of water and an ironing leaves all edges opened still; smoke replaces the steam, and I cannot see the buttonhole but hear a hiss and press harder.
A blanket extinguishes it.
Glory, but really … no glory, because as I stand above the blanket it eyes me with singed sockets.