My hand, at the lip of your trousers, fumbles with too-tight buttons, the coin-heavy insides of pockets. A tug of denim, a groan as my hands slip further inside, plying at the fabric and shivering against a marching knit of thread. The trousers bunch and stretch, creaking beneath my tentatively exploring fingers. Another groan, and I bite my lip, which warms as blood blooms to hover just beneath the skin. I close my eyes in frustration, and fling your trousers to the ground.
Will you ever learn to empty your pockets before putting your jeans in the wash?
flash fiction