By Rae White
He bundled his boot cut jeans into a giant ziplock bag.
‘It’s how you preserve them,’ he said to me, peering into the open freezer door.
He flipped back the long hair from his face while holding the door with his shoulder. He pushed aside kilo bags of peas and ancient tundra of Tupperware, making a slim space to press his jeans into.
‘It’s an art,’ he continued, slamming the door shut. ‘It’s not just about keeping them clean. It’s about their shape, how they fit against you. Should be like a second skin.’ He cupped the curve of his jeans-clad arse cheek with his hand and gestured with his eyes, encouraging my gaze downwards.
I rolled my eyes and looked out the window. In the park behind our apartment I saw two children fighting over a swing, wrestling with each other in the woodchips. From what I could see, the smaller wiry kid was winning.
‘What about the jizz stain?’ I asked, arms folded. Shane had been living in the share house six months and we’d been sleeping together for two of them, a decision I’d come to regret.
‘Also art, baby,’ he insisted, rolling his shoulders back and cracking his neck. ‘Coz the freezer makes it disappear. Like magic!’
It absolutely doesn’t.
It’s been three months since Shane bailed, leaving us short one housemate and $1000. I open the freezer door to find his frosted, manky jeans concealed under an ice cube tray. I pop open the bag and icy dandruff scatters over the tiles.
I haul out the fabric, tentatively edge my nose towards the crotch, and sniff.
They smell okay. Faintly musty. Like breathing in brisk post-midnight air, while catching a whiff of your own stale breath.
And there, frosted and congealed below the left pocket, is the semen stain. It reminds me of the secretion a snail might leave, hardened and smelling faintly of wet grass. Maybe Shane was right about it being art.
I throw Shane’s jeans in the overflowing box in the corner of the room and grab my car keys.