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Lost Socks

I am wearing matching socks today.

This morning I went into my sock pile – it sits, un-sorted, above the shiny orange dresser that came with my “un furnished” flat – and found a disturbing quanitity of tan-colored mismatched socks. Like, maybe 6 or 7 of them? 

And that’s just the tan line, not darks. So there could be lots more. I don’t understand where the rest of them could be.

I think maybe they are hiding out in an attempt to mess with my head. That would be really funny, actually, because I think it’s probably been months where I haven’t noticed. So what I think is my socks decided to play a trick on me, and about half my socks snuck off, like Allied soldiers from a German POW camp. They left in small groups over a few weeks and hid somewhere they thought I wouldn’t find, like in a box I haven’t looked in since August or maybe the bottom of a chest I don’t use.

And they giggled and peeked out once in awhile and thought it was so funny, and they said things like “oh, he’s going to be so mad when he finds out!”. Maybe they even acted out little comic scenes, where one sock pretended to be me looking for my missing socks, saying things in a loud stage voice like a parent would looking for a 3 year old who is hiding smack dab in the middle of the living room. “I wonder where those socks are!!!” the fake Peter would say, while the rest of the socks sat very still and giggled. “Where could they be? Where are my socks?????”.

Giggle giggle giggle.

But then something terrible happened – maybe the box got moved, or thrown out, or something. Maybe I accidentally covered them up with all of my tactical gear, or emergency food, or some old letters. And now they are trapped. One by one they’ve become listless and depressed and have given up on getting rescued, until the last of the most chipper of the socks, a particular stretchy Calvin Klein, has given up saying “he’ll find us, don’t you worry!” and now sits staring at a small piece of lint in the corner. 

Poor socks.

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