There lay two socks together. Two socks, not a pair of. No – far from it. One sock, long almost as if a stocking, was a dull pink with shades of wear and tear. Especially around the heel. There the pink had faded to a translucent off-white. Which today looked like a stained white. For exactly beneath it lay a bright white thick sock that shone through the faded heel. So white one would swore it had never been worn before had it not been for the light brown that hung precariously in three spots on its sole: where the toes rest the brown was so light that one had to search for it, it got darker by the ball of the forefoot, and darkest by the heel – of course the instep remained white as snow. Only one conclusion could be drawn from this, the wearer must have walked around with their toes pointed out in a careful albeit futile attempt not to soil the socks. Or sock – for we know not if the white sock had a partner, or if the pink stocking moonlighted as such. That would make for an odd pair. Yet together they lay, in absolute silence and comfort. Content. With seemingly no care in the world as to whether they were a pair. Just two socks. Carelessly together.