Purple Sock

Dear Lucy,

I can’t find my husband. I’ve looked everywhere you can imagine. As you know, it’s not like me to lose something.

I did find something whilst looking though. A purple sock. It was in a duvet cover, rammed right into the corner. After the initial excitement of finding it, it made me want to cry. Somehow it ruined everything.

I think the lost sock had enjoyed being away. On its own, buried deep down inside the duvet. But the sock it left behind – though surrounded by other socks – had become increasingly anxious about the spaces in between.
I put the found sock in the drawer and I’ve felt sad ever since.

It’s like my husband. When I do find him, I’m afraid it will be too late, we won’t match anymore. One of us will be more faded than the other, our threads compacted and worn in such different ways that, no matter what light we’re in, we’ll always look a little off. So why do I keep looking for him?

I don’t know to be honest. I’m afraid if I don’t that he’ll jump out and scare me for fun, even though he knows I don’t like to be frightened that way. I don’t like to be frightened any way, that’s always been my trouble. That’s what he said once. I was so angry that I roared at him – blood in my eyes, sweat flying from my teeth, shaking so violently that I couldn’t see.

I had wondered afterwards if it was normal to want to kill your husband (in that moment, I had wanted to batter him with his own shoes). It’s normal to want to kill your parents, metaphorically of course. Something to do with separating and becoming your own  person. Is that why I wanted to kill my husband? Maybe I already have and that’s why I can’t find him?

Oh well, at least I know where my purple sock isn’t now, which is everywhere except where it should be.