She was my fourth.

Eyes open, she lay with a fixed-smile on her face. Milky skin and golden hair, as dishevelled as the rumpled sheets. Her hand casually resting on her forehead. After pulling on my jeans and t-shirt, I pick up her clothes. Inhaling them, I smell vanilla-musk. I examine them, carefully. She smiles and watches me searching. Red leather mini-skirt. No buttons. Black camisole. No buttons. What about her shoes? I grab the leopard print stilettos in hope. No buttons, just straps. Where were they?

When I spied her last night in the bar, she had buttons. She must have. I only want women with buttons. Perhaps I’d made a mistake, but it was too late to go back now. The deed was done. My happiness deflates as fast a balloon with a hole in. I shrivel down to the floor. Rising back up with a shoe in hand I throw it in anger, and it smacks against the wall. I jump up, grab my keys, wallet and rush out of the door.

“Won’t be long.” I knew she wouldn’t be any bother. She would wait for me to return. She had no choice.

The rail groaned as I jostled through the clothing in a frenzy. A cardigan would work, it had to co-ordinate with her top, seem like it was always there. My hands caressed a black cotton cardigan with small red buttons, the plastic shone as I heaved it from the rail hungrily. Perfect! My heartbeat danced, skin prickled in excitement. Slamming the twelve pounds down on the counter, I practically skipped out of the store; I had the buttons, that was all I wanted.

I placed the bag on the passenger seat. Then noticed it, I’d missed it before in my panicked state, a leopard print jacket peeking out from under the seat. My darting hand seized the soft-furriness. Black buttons. I preferred the red ones though. They’d be more realistic, but at least I had these as a spare for next time.

“Told you I wouldn’t be long. We’ve got things to be doing.” She was right where I left her. I knew she wouldn’t leave. She lay, still, there in the bed. Naked. Milky flesh. I straddled her. She looks and smiles. Her hand casually resting on her forehead. I stare into her eyes. Leaning forward I slowly lick the purple marks that encircle her neck. She tasted sour, a faint trace of vanilla-musk.

With gloved hands, I grasp the needle and thread. Red buttons become her smile as I sew the curve across her lips. Her smile fixed. I smile back. Kiss her buttoned-lips.

Cutting the last button from the silken tag of the cardigan I hold it high like a sacrifice, then place the red plastic in my button jar; it clinks as it meets the other three, the yellow, the silver, the blue.

She was my fourth.