There were two packs of butter in the fridge, clearly labelled with black marker: John; Amy.

“What’s this?”

“What’s what?” he shouted from the living room.

“The two lots of butter? What do we need two for?”

“Does it matter? Just use your one.”

She opened up ‘his’ carton. It looked quite normal, though unused. Confused, she opened up ‘her’ carton. It also looked quite normal. Then she noticed ‘his’ wasn’t unused: ‘her’ carton had a deep trough decorated with crumbs, the natural consequence of regularly buttering toast, while ‘his’ butter had been kept carefully flat and free of crumbs.

Hard to believe anyone had the time to care about something so insignificant, really, but so like him. Sometimes, when she wanted to annoy him, she would viciously squeeze the toothpaste tube right in the middle – a look of almost physical pain would flash across his face. Why did he have to be so picky?

Her toast was getting cold. She picked up her knife, plunged it into ‘his’ butter, and started on the first slice.