It takes me a little while to figure it out: the perfect small revenge. Sam is somewhat meticulous about his socks. I open the top drawer of his dresser and separate each one from its mate. Mix the argyle pattern with the stripes. Slip a Taco Tuesday one between the solid black pair that is reserved for very important business meetings and funerals. I feel deranged but also good. It’ll be moderately disorienting, maybe, but he probably won’t say anything. It would be an insane thing to accuse me of doing.
