The Sock

By Peter Bowden

It started with a sock. One. Singular. Navy blue with a pale yellow stripe near the top. It was last seen entering the dryer in a perfectly matched pair, tumbling joyfully through the heat with its lifelong partner. And then — poof — gone. Evaporated. Absconded. Disappeared into the spinning mystery of domestic life.

He checked the drum. Then under the machine. Then under the cat, who blinked once and refused to comment. He accused the dog. He interrogated the lint trap. “You can tell me,” he whispered, flashlight in hand, “where did he go?” The room said nothing, just hummed that suspicious appliance hum, like a secret being kept by cheap metal and old socks everywhere.

Days passed. The partner sock stood in quiet mourning on the dresser, folded neatly, dignified in its solitude. But then—he found it. Behind the bookcase in the guest room, curled like a hibernating mouse. How? Why? It would never say. Just sat there, smug and silent, daring him to question the laws of laundry. He reunited the pair and swore, from now on, to count socks like treasure. Because they are. And they know it.


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