The mystery of socks and underwear continues to baffle me. Even after I have compulsively searched the apartment for every last pair to put in the laundry, I am haunted by the renegade balled up sock. The lone, forgotten pair of man panties that has been under the desk for who-knows-how-long. A colony of socks livi
ng in the crevice of the couch, and their sister colony of briefs that has set up camp in the corner of the closet. When I have found all the hidden ones, I look around the now-clean room with trepidation before I leave for a glass of water. I stand at the sink, pensive. The condensation from my cold glass falling in time with the sweat beads down my brown. I consider acts of love. Maybe it is the lack of years under our 'relationship belt', but it actually is somewhat endearing that my partner's intimates seem to scatter like the frightened Jews of a diaspora. I smile to myself smugly, relishing how much he'll appreciate that I've cleaned, done laundry and organized while he was out of town. I high-five myself. "Look at you, you anomaly of gender roles" I think. "You, with your cooking, cleaning, doing laundry AND being a full time student with a job. Who says you can't get good grades AND keep those whites white and colors bright?!" Phil will come home from his gig and find not only a clean apartment, but every pair of socks and underwear cleaned, folded and lined up like detained prisoners in submission, and I will live to tell of it! Glory!
I put the glass in the sink and return to the room to collect the laundry, only to be met by horror and bafflement. Did I hallucinate the immaculate floor? There are socks and underwear in places I must have missed! As I move the desk chair, not one but FOUR different socks somehow materialize from under the wheels. I hurriedly snatch them up and make toward the bed. With shaky hands and bated breath, I slowly pull back the comforter, and one after another three pairs of man panties tumble forth in a manner that I can only describe as garrulous laughter. I grab the underwear, now panting and turn around to find a decoupaged floor of single socks and balled up underwear. "But how?" I think to myself, "he isn't even here! Where are they coming from!?" ::RUSTLE::RUSTLE:: I look up and cannot hide my smile. A suitcase on the top shelf of the closet must have shifted, and so very innocently, like the first December snowfall, socks and underwear float toward the floor like graceful ice crystals. I sit, unsure of what my next step should be. Do I accept defeat? Wait for my partner to get home and help me? Surely he knows how to deal with these nefarious articles of clothing. The socks do not stop falling. I lie down on the now pile of dude-intimates, exhausted. How could I have been so naive as to think I'd gotten them all? I even took a water break! I laugh to myself a soft cackle before the last pair of underwear falls over my eyes. Everything is dark.
They found my body a week later.
They found my body a week later.
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