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Hugo and Lefty are very much the George and Lennie of the sock drawer.
Hugo has finally slithered back home, quietly, under the door, much the worse for wear. He finds Lefty on the window sill, quietly watching the shums at their antics. We suspect he's trying to count them, but as we know, socks, even smart wool socks, can only count to five, and even that is dubious in Lefty's case.
Hugo, even through a killer hang-over, can still function well enough to contemplate Lefty, noticing all the small details of posture that he knows so well. He'd like nothing better than to collapse into a pile of Zelda's scarves and sleep away the last few days, but instead he sidles up to Lefty, who doesn't say a word. No words are needed. Despite everything, they are a pair, after all.
Something must be done, however, about the smell of bourbon, Gauloises, cat urine, pathos, and fabric softener.
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