Its Socks by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Its Socks

Page 26

“We’re socks,” said a Wal-Mart ankle sock named Chad. “We keep feet warm. We get stepped on. We go missing in dryers. That’s the gig.”

The drawer became a battleground of ideology. The Cuccinellis demanded segregation. “We require cedar dividers,” they insisted. “And silence. We meditate on Sartre.”

The Wal-Mart socks threw a party instead. They blasted sock hop music and played spin the fabric softener. One of them got cozy with a rogue glove.

But then came the Great Laundry Day.

The drawer was emptied. Washed. Dried. Folded. And in the chaos, Lorenzo found himself paired with Chad.

It was awkward. Lorenzo itched from the polyester. Chad felt judged.

But as the day wore on, something shifted. Lorenzo noticed Chad’s resilience; how he didn’t complain about being stretched over a foot that had clearly run a marathon. Chad admired Lorenzo’s elegance, even as he slipped down the calf with quiet dignity.

By nightfall, they were back in the drawer. Side by side.