Thursday, August 18, 2005

sock memories

I found a piece of you on my bathroom floor this morning. A single, sweat-stained sock, lying crumpled in the corner. Like my heart. It looked lonely on the cold tile. I picked it up, fingering the soft, nubby cotton-spandex blend.

My eyes were full of tears; my Kleenex box was empty. I crushed your sock to my face, inhaling a pungent aroma of sweat, dust, and toe jam. Suddenly, thoughts of you flooded the corners of my brain.

You always used to leave your socks on. I would tease you, pulling them off with eager fingers, tickling your tender soles with my newly manicured nails. I was touching your soul, too; I could tell by the way you looked up at me as you asked me to stop. Your gaze would pierce me and I would be transfixed, immobile, the sock slipping from my fingers to the floor.

These memories came in waves like pleasure. Cuddling. Kisses. Anal sxe. For the second time in a week, I was unprepared. I needed a life jacket, not the orange ones I was too fat for as a child, but a mental boost to keep me afloat. I needed my sister, but she was vacationing in the Hamps. I needed creme brulee with caramelized fruit, or a box full of truffles in dark rows, but I didn't need any extra weight. I was already sinking too fast. Drowning in recollection.

I don't phucking need this! The scream echoed inside my head as I collapsed against the wall.

Two weeks. Too fast. I still don't know what to feel, what to think. I don't know whether to call you or to forget you, whether to return your sock or keep it under my pillow. Maybe someday I'll figure it out, when the odor of your foot sweat has faded.