It is Saturday lunch time, and my wife is lecturing everyone for making too much noise on Friday night.
“All these people shrieking and laughing,” she says to the oldest one. “And the doorbell ringing every five minutes.”
“It wasn’t only my friends,” he says.
“I don’t care,” she says. “And then your father comes home at 3am, slamming into things and turning on lights.” The oldest one’s girlfriend turns to look at me.
“Where were you until three?” she says.
“Playing poker,” I say.
“It will be quieter tonight,” says the oldest one.
“We’re going to a film,” my wife says. “I don’t care what happens tonight.”
“We’re going to a film?” I say.
“How much did you lose?‚” says the oldest one’s girlfriend.
“He won,” my wife says. “He tried to make me roll around in his money at 3am.”
“You were not into it,” I say. “And then I put my foot through my jeans taking them off.” I display the T-shaped rip on the left knee.
“We’ll leave early,” my wife says. “And you can buy yourself some new jeans with your winnings.”
At 6pm my wife and I are traversing the crowded mall where the film she wants to see is showing, heading for the place where I last bought jeans. She stops suddenly, and turns.
“I want to take you in here for a minute,” she says.
“Why?” I say. “Are you trying to make me shop?”
“This way,” she says. We ride an escalator backed by a long mirrored wall. In it I see a stooped and haggard figure in a shapeless jumper, his jeans ripped at the knee.
“Don’t look in the mirror,” my wife says, facing the other way. “I never look in this mirror.”
“Too late,” I say. The image of the stooped figure haunts me as my wife pulls jumpers off the rack and holds them under my chin.
“Do you like this?” my wife says.
“Are you making fun of me?” I say.
“No,” she says. “It’s nicer than what you’re wearing.”
“These are young people’s clothes,” I say. “I’m old, and I need jeans.”
“Fine,” she says. “Let’s go.” We stand sideways on the down escalator, backs to the mirror. Ten minutes later we’re looking at a wall of folded jeans.
“What about these?” my wife says.
“I always get the same kind,” indicating my ripped jeans. “This kind.”
“They won’t have that kind any more,” she says.
“Here they are,” I say, pulling down a pair. “My kind, my size.”
“OK,” she says. “Go and try them on.”
“Try them on?” I say. “Are you high?”
“And these,” she says. “And these. And you need to come back out and show me.”
I find myself alone in a changing room with three pairs of jeans, trying to reconcile the haunted figure from the mirror with the tide of adolescent irritation rising in me. The first pair of jeans have a pre-folded cuff and an odd taper.
“Incorrect,” my wife says. “Next.” The second pair are skinny jeans. They cling to my thighs and calves, and prevent my knees from bending.
“Hi,” I say. “Remember me? I used to be in McFly.”
“My bad,” my wife says. “Back you go.” The last jeans are the ones I always get. I wonder if I should buy three pairs, in case they stop making them.
“What do you think?” I say to my wife.
“They’re your jeans,” she says.
“I know,” I say. “Are they all right?”
“Look in the mirror,” she says. “Behind you.”
“No thanks,” I say. “I’m all done with mirrors.”
