Well Dressed Aliens

A pair of socks goes into the washer, yet only one comes out of the dryer. I look, I look again, then I stick my arm all the way in and wipe my hand all the way around the drum in case static cling forced it to glue itself to the sides. When my search doesn’t come up with it I do the same manipulations with the washer. Nope. Gone. I go back to the dryer and take out the lint screen, like it chartered a bus during the cool down cycle to visit its cousins, also on the lint screen. It’s not about losing a sock, it’s about losing my mind. I’m saving the orphans just in case the ones that ran off show up. I feel bad for the lonely, mismatched socks. I picture their mates ran off for more exciting sock partners. They shimmy out of the dryer when I’ve got my back turned and the door open, and then slip under the dryer until the coast is clear making a run for it. Even now, the socks in my sock drawer are plotting their escape. If you see an alien wearing mismatched socks, please send them back to me. Their mates are waiting.