We clung to each other in the dryer. Spinning socks became whirling dervishes in a passionate dance.
Unceremoniously thrown onto the hard surface. I was the only one left. Widowed now, and no one else can be my mate.
I’ve resorted to cuddling up to a lint ball.
Making people laugh, especially while they’re swallowing big spoonfuls of soup, is one of Diane Malk’s goals. She is a writer from Colorado who shudders at the sight of snow every winter and is certain she lived in the tropics in a previous life. Diane has been published in Mad Swirl, Hackwriters, and Scarlet Leaf Review. She is working on her first book and always has a craft project in the works.
Herbert slid his shirt on over the bandages covering his sides. The wounds were painful, but not crippling.
Picking up the steel letter opener, he realized he didn’t really care how he had come to be here. All he cared about was getting out.
Unfortunately, he still had no socks.
I gave my dad a pair of socks for Fathers’ Day. They were gray and had a mouse face on them with whiskers sticking out from the toes.
They were a gag gift, but he wore them all day.
I also paid to reattach his toe after the cat incident.
“Cralston! Bring me a letter opener!”
Herbert Cralston blearily lifted his head, fished around inside his desk with one hand while haphazardly tucking his shirt in with the other, slipped on his leather shoes, then stood and wobbled into his boss’s office.
Too late, he realized he’d forgotten his socks.