Odd Socks

Six-thirty in the morning, and the moment I open my eyes my right foot is cold. From the pile of socks I washed yesterday and never folded, I manage to find one, but the other seems to have rolled under the sofa. In the kitchen, only the hum of the refrigerator sounds unusually loud. While I wait for the kettle, my face in the mirror looks unfamiliar. A black sock on the left foot, dark gray on the right. Not remotely matching, but there's no time to care. I open the front door and the sunlight is cold. Waiting for the elevator, I notice the smell of coffee has settled into my collar. The doors open, I step in, and there are my ankles in the mirror again. Black and gray. I thought no one would notice, but the person beside me glanced down. Our eyes met. Their ankles didn't match either. Brown on the right, blue on the left. Without a word we nodded to each other, and the doors closed.