Sock

An ordinary white sock. Size 9-11, unisex. The kind they call slouch socks, which go well when wearing shorts. And can also be worn stretched up the calves on colder days. Mostly muted white still, with gray heel and toe sections. Not as bluish or pinkish as other formerly white socks which had found their way into the color wash.

One good day, the sock escaped. They searched the dryer over and over. They vigorously shook the bedsheets with which socks had cavorted rowdily for forty-five minutes of hot tumbling in the laundry dance.

But no signs of the missing sock. No trace of the simple sock anywhere, the only evidence of its existence being its partner. A widower was left behind, to be discarded, demoted to other uses, to be kept aside until a similar white sock vanishes, to wait idly until they dare to wear mismatched socks, or until they lose one of their feet, whichever comes first.

When they lay awake at night, they think about the long-lost sock. Where is she now? Does she miss her spouse? Does she miss them as much as they miss her? 

Or maybe, just maybe, the sock was ecstatic when the static helped her cling to the roof of the dryer cavity long enough while they collected the laundry, and then went for it, took off, fled to freedom from a marriage arranged at an early age, before she had a choice, and now, self-satisfied, sighs, saying ‘single at last!’