The Missing Sock

The over fifteen pairs of socks, all colourful, all spotted and striped, are in the washing machine, floating around in a frenzy of perfumed bubbles. This social gathering of cheap feet warmers happens once every week, and you could tell by their inbuilt excitement, that they look forward to it. If they had a mouth, they would probably thank you. If they had hands, they would probably give you the finger. Not that finger, the thumb finger, of course.

Over thirty minutes and a tumble dry later, everybody's happy and everybody's clean. There were no unannounced neighbours calling the police because it was too noisy, no strange remarks from the boring pale underwear who happened to be jogging nearby. Most importantly, there were no unnecessary casualties cutting the party short. It was truly a heart warming sight to witness.

But the story doesn't stop here. Because happiness, too tired of sticking around, decided to go its own way. The now folded socks stopped smiling. The drawer, saddened by the night's turn of events, starts sobbing. It's a pity really, because what was once a loving atmosphere, is now nothing but a heartbroken scene.

Then days go by and you start to forget about it. But sometimes, somewhere deep in the corners of your mind, corners so detached from reality nobody ever dared go there, you find yourself wondering.

Will he ever find you? Will you ever find him?

Oh shit I'm sorry. It. I mean "it".