Sometimes you try on a pair of jeans and you know, instantly, that you’ve found your new favorite pants.
That’s how Amber feels about me. Love at first wear.
“These jeans were made for me,” she tells her companions as she steps out of the dressing room.
And she’s right; I was made for her. I was sketched out, woven together, cut into form and sewn into being, all in hopes that I would someday be worn and loved. And as Amber moans that she doesn’t want to spend a moment without me—she even asks the cashier to scan my tag while she’s still wearing me—I know that I’ve fulfilled my purpose as a pair of pants.
Amber walks through the mall almost bouncing with giddiness. She has the new-clothes-glow, beaming because she’s convinced that the world is full of delightful things and she herself is one of them.
She washes me as soon as we get home, and doesn’t stop telling her friends how lucky she is to have found me.
I’m ready to spend the rest of my days loving her with every fiber of my fabric.
***
When she puts me in her pants drawer, my new companions tell me that I’m the first pair of jeans Amber has owned in years. All of her leggings study me with curiosity and awe, asking in breathy spandex voices who I was and where I came from—all wondering how I found my way into Amber’s heart and wardrobe.
“Don’t be so sure about love,” a silky skirt comments from the back of the drawer. She speaks with the steady, biting cadence of someone who has been hurt so much she would rather be vindicated than loved. “Amber will wear you every day for weeks and then forget she ever knew you. She’ll promise to wear you to an event six months from now, even though she knows that she’ll be tired of you by Thursday. You live and breathe just to make a girl smile—but honey, one day she’ll wake up and realize she doesn’t give a damn about you.”
“You’re just grumpy because she hasn’t worn you since the summer,” a pair of leggings hisses back.
“She’ll rip you apart and leave you to the moths,” the skirt says. “It’s just a matter of time.”
***
Surely, I think, the skirt is wrong.
No girl ever loved a pair of jeans as much as Amber loved me. She’ll run an entire load of laundry just because I’m dirty, and she puts me on again as soon as I’m clean. She doesn’t even keep me in the pants drawer—she just folds me over the back of her chair so she can grab me first thing in the morning.
It’s probably a good thing, because I can see the leggings huddled together in her half-open pants drawer, whispering to each other and looking at me with jealousy.
A pair of sweatpants I meet in the laundry basket explains that leggings have short lifetimes and fragile egos.
“You have to remember that elastic isn’t as hearty as denim,” she says, “And being loved isn’t easy. It only takes a few months of being worn and washed for a pair of leggings to look frumpy or get holes. And as soon as Amber sees an imperfection, she treats them as if they were worthless. So they’re incredibly insecure.”
“But—why would they want to be worn if they know it will destroy them even faster?”
“Same reason as all the rest of us. Clothes would rather be loved, even for a short time, than slowly fade away.”
The sweatpants and I get along well. She’s humble and down-to-earth because she has never been Amber’s favorite, but she will always have Amber’s love. She’s old and broken down, and she’s still the pants Amber reaches for when she’s tired or unwell or just had a long day. She has stains, holes, and total confidence in her own value.
***
For a month, Amber wears me almost every day, and every day she loves me even more. My fabric softens around the curves and angles of her body, and I sculpt myself to the way she walks and sits and crosses her legs and puts her phone in her pocket. I’m the star of every outfit, and wearing me is the highlight of every morning.
But then she wears leggings three days in a row.
I tell myself not to read into the situation. It’s probably because it’s been rainy recently, and I don’t get along well with her rain boots. (We’re always fighting about who should cover her ankles.)
She wears me again a few days later, but she takes me off as soon as she gets home.
“I’m sorry,” the sweatpants whisper as Amber puts on something else and walks away, leaving me crumpled on the floor.
***
I spend a week folded over the back of her chair, wondering what went wrong. Amber loved me too much to let me go this easily. She said she would love me forever. She said I was her favorite. She even decided what shirts to buy because of me. This can’t be how it all ends, I think.
Even the leggings tell me to calm down. “She doesn’t move on that fast,” they say. “Besides—she adores you.”
I try to believe them, but deep in my threads I already know: it’s over.
***
And then Amber bustles into her room one Saturday afternoon with an armful of new clothes. She immediately sorts through the pile—and pulls out a new pair of jeans.
It’s fine, I tell myself. There’s four leggings, after all. And it’ll be nice to have a denim friend around.
Amber steps into the jeans and looks herself over in the mirror, trying various poses and admiring herself. She’s delighted in her new purchase.
I feel as though I’ve been ripped in half and soaked in acid because I recognize that new-jeans-smile—and I know she’ll never adore me like that again.
It’s fine. It’s fine. She can have two pairs of jeans. She can love us both. It’s fine. This doesn’t mean anything. She still loves me.
Amber steps across the hall into her friend’s bedroom, posing and modeling her new jeans. “Aren’t these fantastic?” She asks. “These are, like, the best pants I’ve ever owned. These are my favorite jeans ever.”
As soon as the words leave her mouth she looks back at me, draped over her chair heartbroken and betrayed. Right where she left me, waiting to embrace her once again. Expecting that I’d be part of her life for a good long time, willing to fray and be worn thin for her.
From her face, I know that she feels guilty. But her regret doesn’t matter. We both know the truth: she doesn’t love me anymore.
It’s fine…
***
Amber holds onto me for months, telling herself that she does still love me—she’s just waiting for the right moment to wear me. I never meet the new pair of jeans, but everyone says that they’re just like me—light wash, straight leg, one hole, sturdy but flexible—but better: more comfortable, more flattering, deeper pockets, nicer brand.
It’s fine, I tell myself yet again. I’ve accepted my fate.
Until Amber gives me a reason to hope again. She lays me out one night, promising to wear me the next morning. I thought I had moved on, but as soon as I’m folded over the back of the chair, I realize just how much I missed her. I spend that night dreaming of reconciliation. She’ll remember how much she adored me, I think. She’ll fall in love with me a second time. We can start over. I’ll see the sunlight again.
But morning comes and by breakfast she realizes that my buttons dig into her waist and I’m stiff around her knees. I’m not broken in, just heartbroken.
At the last minute she changes into her new favorite jeans and stuffs me back in the drawer before running to catch her bus.
“I told you so,” the skirt gloats.
I crawl into the back corner of the pants drawer, wrinkled and ashamed, wishing the darkness would take me.
***
Almost a year later, Amber finally lets me go. She holds me in her hands for a long time before throwing me into her donation bag alongside the skirt, some ancient t-shirts, and withered dresses. I can tell that she, too, wonders what could have been.
“I hate girls,” the skirt says as Amber drives us to the thrift store. “You can’t trust them at all. They obsess over us and then they abandon us. They destroy us, they forget us, they keep us crumpled in the dark while they move on to new adventures. Love is so vicious and volatile, I don’t even want it anymore.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” a ripped dress with wrinkled eyelets and a gravelly voice replies. “This is my fifth time back at that damn store.”
“Is it scary there?” I ask.
“Not for you,” the dress says. “You’re young. There’s still hope for you.”
“But what about you?”
The dress chokes out a bitter, gritty laugh. “I’m old. Who would want me? Amber wasn’t even sure whether to donate me or throw me away.”
The skirt doesn’t say anything; she’s angry, but young and resilient enough to have another chance at love. If she wants it.
But all the other clothes in the bag cackle in agreement, hopeless enough the only thing left to do is laugh.
***
The thrift store isn’t so bad. They hang me up in a row with all the other jeans my size, and at first I’m defensive—why make friends with my rivals? But we’re all wildly different styles cut from the same friendly, earnest cloth, so being competitive doesn’t even make sense. We all want each other to find a good home.
“I just miss being loved,” I tell the pair of jeans next to me.
“You weren’t loved, you were liked,” she says. “Love doesn’t give up as easily as your girl did.”
“How do you know?”
“My girl loved me. She didn’t wear me everyday, but she depended on me for years. And there were tears in her eyes when she realized she had to let me go.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“She got married, had a kid, had to move across the country. I didn’t have room for her and she didn’t have room for me,” she sighs. “She still loved me—we just didn’t fit in each others’ lives anymore.”
“I hope someone loves me someday,” I say.
“They will,” she promises. “They will.”
such a fun way to write i like this idea!