TROUSERS

I take a pair of jeans off the shelf. ‘Stretch skinny’ the label says. They’re thick, black, and have tears in the knees. I’ve never been a fan of ripped jeans. I don’t understand the aesthetic.

There was a guy from college who used to hang around in the smoking area who wore a pair like these. He’d lean up against the metal fence, one arm folded across his front and the other holding a cigarette away from his body. His chin used to be tucked into his chest, like he didn’t want anyone to see his face. My ex and I would sit on a bench nearby, and I would watch him. Was it the flick of the gravel by his shoes as chattering groups walked by that had his interest? Was he listening to conversation, learning who caught the clap off Iona last weekend at Malcolm’s party? Or, was he somewhere else entirely? And then he would bring the cigarette to his mouth, draw in a hot mouthful, tilt his head back like a ball on a hinge and let out a thick sigh. He was there every lunch, always alone. My ex caught me staring once, and laughed to herself. “What?” I asked. “Nothing” she replied. I knew it wasn’t nothing.

I fold up the ripped jeans and put them back on the shelf.

I sweep down the aisle and pick out another pair. These ones are combats, with all the crazy pockets and loops and hooks and God knows what else. I hold them up to my waist and snigger. Definitely not.

They remind me of an old friend’s dad. I used to go hang out with this girl every weekend when I was, like, thirteen, fourteen maybe. It was a well-off family (cushy council jobs), so she always had the coolest stuff at her place. I remember one time I went over, and she’d barely answered the door before rushing back into the front room. I walked in, utterly confused, and kicked my shoes off as her dad was coming downstairs. “Hey there buddy,” he said with an earnest grin, “lunch will be ready soonish. Hope you brought your appetite!” He was wearing a pair of overalls that had an obscene number of pockets. Sprouting from them were all manner of tools and gadgets. He was into model-building, ship replicas mostly. He had a little room upstairs where he kept them all. I never got to see inside. “Dad’d kill me if you broke anything” my friend would say. I came into the front room to see why she’d run off. She was on some online game which had her all wired up with a headset and microphone. I expected her to pull up a controller and hand it to me, but instead she shook her head - “One-player. Gimme two secs and I’ll be done.” I nodded and took a seat. I’d been watching her play for about half an hour when her dad came in with a tray of pizza and juice. He looked at the screen, then at me. “Have you had a turn yet?” he said to me, sternly. I tried to give a neutral shrug, but there was fire in his eyes. He slammed the food tray down on the coffee table. “Right,” he roared, “I spoke to you about this last week when Ryan was over! I warned you what would happen!”

“Dad!” my friend shouted back. Within an instant he’d plucked her off the sofa, causing the headset she was wearing to ping off her head and rap against my knee, and brought her to the armchair on the other side of the room. “I told you you’re never too old!” He placed her across his knees, whilst she screamed and protested, lifted up her skirt, pulled down her pants, and spanked her. I looked the other way. He spent a good minute doing this, hard and harsh whilst she choked on tears. Once he was done, he came over and calmly picked up the controller. “You can play any game you want, buddy.”

I nodded. I remember the living room door shutting, and me looking at my friend, her pants about her ankles, shaking violently.

Not these ones. I fold them up and put them back. I move over to a bigger section of the store where there are display tables, signs jutting from them blaring ‘20% OFF EVERYTHING’. I sit on the floor and sort through a selection of ‘boot cut’ jeans. A pair catch my eye. I pull them out and rub the denim between my fingers. They’re a bleached pair, with a brass fly. The pockets are too shallow, and the label on the back itches. I know this because I used to wear this same pair when I was younger. Seasons come and go, but cheap clothes never change.

I remember buying these jeans for myself, with the first wage packet I ever made. I started doing this Monday paper round when I was twelve. One-hundred and seventeen papers, about an hour and a bit’s work for a crisp fiver. My friend would come out and help me, and in return I’d share a Mars bar and a cigarette with her. One day it was raining, and the papers turned to mâché in the pull-trolley. We sat under the bike shelter by the playpark and puffed on the cigarette I’d stolen from my mum. “Me and you are buddies, right?” she said, turning to me. I shrugged. “Sure.” She made some shapes with her mouth like she was going to speak, but then she exhaled and gave up.

“What?”

She turned away.

“Come on, what?”

She unzipped her coat and took my hand, then pulled it inside and pressed it up against her chest. Then she let go.

“What was that?” I asked as I slowly took my hand back.

She looked like she was about to cry. “Did you like it?”

I shrugged. She leant a head on my shoulder.

I fold these trousers up and put them back. I look over to the tills. She’s still there. “Just pick something…” I mumble to myself.