That which can be mended

One of the boys from earlier comes over to Gail with his coat in his hands. A button has come off. He asks her if he can fix it, holding it out to her.

She takes a look, runs her fingers over the loose thread.

I have a sowing kit in the car, she says. Come back in a little while.

Did you ask her because she was a woman? I tease him. I know him from before and I like him, he's a likable sort.

He protests, embarrassed.

I asked the guy first, he says. But he can't sow.

We watch him go back to the others. Gail returns to her seat, and smoothes the coat out on her lap. She selects a needle carefully, unravels a length of thread. The needle flashes silver in her hands.

The girl leaning against the counter says, I was talking to his teacher earlier. His mother died three weeks ago. She was a seamstress.

We all share a look. There are too many questions, and there is nothing to say.

Next door is the sounds of boys running and yelling and happily crashing over furniture. Someone begins to bang out a few chords on the piano and a ragged cheer goes up.

Three weeks, someone says to themselves. I don't know if it's a question or an answer.

I watch Gail at work, returning things to right.