so these jeans

So these jeans he had on didn’t fit like they used to. They were faded and there was a frayed patch of denim on the right pant-leg where the knee likes to settle. He didn’t like their new feel. It was that damned washing machine, commercial and economical. It was too simple, and small, he could only fit half of his hamper.

So these dang jeans. He looked at them with surprising contempt. When he tried them on at the store they were so perfect. The wash was dark, a pristine dark wash of neatly folded and sowed denim. There was a guarantee on those jeans. A promise that they would be more than satisfactory to him. He looked at himself from the waist down, following the inseam down to the floor. A great pair of jeans, what a great wash, dark, perfect, a really good wash.

His jeans. He rustled his shaggy hair, the oil lingering on his fingertips. His fingertips rubbing the patch. His knee, alive, living, breathing beneath more than satisfactory material. The oil remained on the imperfection, the soft breach of fabric poisoning the assurance of quality and ruining his opulence.

He took in a final breath through his cigarette and killed it on the patch, thoroughly rubbing in the ashes with scorn. He violently threw the cigarette to the cement, his index and middle finger liberated. They tore through the poison and ripped those dang jeans, that damned washing machine.

He stepped on the lifeless cigarette and squinted his eyes. He had to get another really good wash now, he had to.