“I can’t find my socks,” he said. “Why can I never find my socks?”
“Wear a pair of mine,” she said.
“All your socks are pink,” he said.
“So?”
“So, you know how much shit I got from Steve last week when I wore your socks?”
“Why’d you show him?” she said.
“I didn’t show him,” he said. “He dropped his pen during a meeting and when he reached down to get it, he saw them.”
“That’s a shame,” she said.
“Are you taking my socks?”
“Why would I want your socks?” she said. “They aren’t pink.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have time for this. I just won’t wear socks.”
“Pink socks are better than no socks. Only creeps wear no socks.”
“Well then I guess today I’m a creep,” he said, and kissed her on the forehead. “Gotta go.”
Still naked, she went to her bedroom window and looked down from the tiny apartment out onto the street. She imagined him taking the steps to the lobby two at a time, cursing as the hard leather of his dress shoes bit into his heels. She had no doubt he’d have blisters by lunchtime, but still, she didn’t feel any guilt. He could’ve worn the pink socks.
Now he’d be crossing the lobby. Griff, the morning doorman, would give him the traffic report on his way out and suggest which route to take to the office. And now, ah yes, there he was, out the door and walking briskly across the street towards his black BMW.
After he’d driven away, she walked over to the nightstand and pulled out the pair of brown dress socks with white paisley print running up the length of both sides. They had been folded neatly at the bottom of his overnight bag, and she’d taken and hid them while he was showering.
She sat down on the bed, which she had also taken the time to make while he’d been in the shower. Her bare back propped up against several white pillows, she grasped the opening of one sock on both ends and gathered it down to the toe the way one does when fitting a pillowcase. Then, she tucked in her left toes and slowly slid the sock over her foot and up her long, slender calf.
She sat for a minute massaging the foot now encased in soft cotton. She pressed her fingers into the ball and rubbed in small, circular motions towards her heel, continuing up the back of her calf. She smoothed the palms of her hands down her shin, over the top ridge of her foot, and fitted the fingers of one hand between her toes. After a moment, she repeated the measure with the other foot.
Now with both socks on, knees bent, she leaned back into the pillows. She reached up and twisted her hair, black like licorice, into a messy bun. Breasts flopping out to both sides, she moved her feet back and forth across the bed in a little dance. She imagined the socks were grateful for the chance to act silly for a change—a few minutes of freedom from their more serious role as business attire.
“This is what it’s like to be pink,” she said.
She checked the clock. 7:56. In a few minutes she would need to shower, too, and begin getting ready for her own busy day. But for now, she was content to just sit here, his smell and these two ugly socks the only things left of him on her skin.
Later, she’d toss them behind the chair by the window, the one he’d haphazardly thrown his bag on last night before pushing her down on the bed.
“They must have fallen out,” she’d say.
And he’d believe her.
