Sock

A gym sock has been in the back window of my car since June 19.

That morning, I wore 2 gym socks, under brown Skechers, as I headed out for a Guinness at 2 a.m. and ended up instead making out with C-2 at Spy Pond.

While we were still in the front seat,  C-2 removed these Skechers and socks with unusual energy.  He tossed both shoes up and out the open moon roof; one landed on the hood below a windshield wiper, the other (to be discovered later) on the parking lot asphalt.  A few hours later, as I gathered myself, I found Sock #1 under the accelerator.  A glancing search did not produce Sock #2.

I think I drove home in my bare feet.

One Sunday evening in July, returning to Boston from Cape Ann, I was thrilled to find an open service station in Beverly, since I was running on fumes.  Zoning out while filling up, I noticed it.

Arriving home, I e-mailed C-2.

Me:  So I was filling my car with gas tonight.   And I saw one of my socks in the back driver's side window.   I think you put it there. Just saying.
Him:   :)
Me:  Indeed.

It's not exaggerating to note that's one of the longer conversations we have had since July 18.  I have looked at that sock many times.

Tonight, while pulling groceries out of my back seat, it seemed the moment to pull the damn thing from the window, and it's already in the washing machine.

Originally, I planned to more acidly parse this Sock #2 removal for the metaphor it could be.

Don't know if I quite have the stomach for it yet.