They were his socks. I knew that when I put them on yesterday. I would never buy black socks. But they were the only clean ones that I could find. I’ve worn the socks dozens of times since he left him at my place all those Julys ago.

But yesterday was the first time I thought, “Hey these are his socks” as I slipped them on my feet. He was one of those that fell in love with iwilldare.com, but found that iwilldare.com live and in person is not such a great thing.

I blame it all on the socks. Somehow the melancholy that followed the leaving of those socks seeped into my soles. Melancholy, like heat, rises and by the time I managed to make my home from work I had been steeped in it all day and my brain was throughly drenched.

Other nights I would have pulled myself out the muck using my fingernails. But I had to cut them all off, my one nice feminine attribute, to help with my guitar learning. So instead I just settled in and made myself one with the emotional stew.

At one point I spent an hour listening to James Ingram’s “Just Once.” Because apparently I needed to get back in touch with my 14-year-old, “Last American Virgin” loving self.

The rest of the night was spent sitting in the dark under a blanket, longing for a male shoulder to rest my heavy head on while watching season one of “24” on DVD.

It was not pretty.

Thankfully, when I woke this morning I had emerged from the muck relatively unscathed. Today, I am back to wearing my own socks.