The Single Sock

I sat on the floor of my dressing room, rifling through my sock drawer.

Ah! There are my favourite sea green socks with navy blue patches.
But wait, these aren’t socks! This is a sock. Singular. A loner. The new single left behind whose partner ditched him; a single contact in a case of contacts; the hour hand of a clock whose minute hand fell off.

I bet he sits there wondering where his mate is. Does he look at other happy pairs of socks and wonder if it was his fault? Or did he lose his partner in a tragic washing machine accident?

Does he believe Greek mythology, and think that socks were really made joint, one sock for each sock, till Zeus split them apart? Or does he over think and go into a pessimistic state of mind, thinking sock mates don’t exist and that other socks just found socks that were the most compatible with them?

Does he think that there is no purpose of his life now that he is partner-less? Or will he get a makeover and turn into a Christmas stocking that everyone loves? Will he go on a downward spiral, tear himself and turn into a wipe cloth? Or will he stick googly eyes on himself and turn into a hand puppet?

*Sigh*. “My poor single sock”, I think, before smacking myself on the head and realising he thinks none of these things since
a) I love this sock – he is not alone, and
b) This is a sock – it can’t think anything!