Its Socks by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Its Socks
Page 77
D'Andre began his ascent.
He trained in silence, practicing origami folds to mimic the elegance of a silk pocket square.
He studied the sacred texts of starch, learning the rituals of rigidity and the art of standing upright without support.
He bribed a rogue mitten to smuggle him into the laundry basket destined for the upper shelves.
The journey was perilous. He dodged the iron's wrath, survived a brief entanglement with a rogue bra strap, and narrowly escaped being mistaken for a cleaning rag.
Finally, he arrived.
The Cabinet was everything he'd imagined; cedar scented, softly lit, and eerily quiet. The textiles here spoke in hushed tones and quoted Coco Chanel. A velvet cravat named Percival eyed D'Andre with disdain.
"You're ... footwear," Percival whispered, as if uttering a slur.
"I'm foundational," D'Andre replied, standing tall despite his sagging cuff.
The Cabinet Council convened. They debated his presence. They cited bylaws, fabric codes, and the ancient prophecy of the