Denim Mountain

I spotted a neat wall of folded jeans stacked up like giant indigo stairs. Gripping the thick stitched hem of a dark-wash pair, I hauled myself onto the first ledge. It felt like scaling a soft blue mountain! I grabbed sturdy belt loops and heavy pocket seams with both hands, planting my knees and hoisting my way up layer by layer. When I finally scrambled onto the very top stack, I planted both feet against a wooden display block and looked out across the whole quiet department. I gave my tummy a proud little pat and smirked—king of the denim hill before the doors even opened.