Wearing an ex-girlfriend’s socks, and the underpants of an unknown man. I know how the socks came into my possession but the underpants remain a minor mystery involving misdirected mail opened before checking the recipient to see that it was misdirected. Physical address on the mailer was on this block but the address did not exist. This still failed to explain why it landed at my front door. Not just in this apartment building but carefully propped up against the surface of the door to this abode. I proactively sought out the individual whose name was on the mailer but found no trace of anyone by that name in public records or other people finder resources. I don’t remember the name at all now. It’s been months, maybe even a year since this stranger’s underpants arrived unsolicited. It’s not like this stranger (if he even exists) and I share a bond. It is unlikely he would see me walking anywhere in a way that makes his intercepted underpants visible. The socks, too, are essentially safe from prying eyes. I wear shoes that make socks visible but no one would look at these podiatral pouches and assume they had ever sheltered anyone’s feet but mine. But I feel something when I wear them because the woman had such demonstrative, oversized feet for  her size and for someone who had never given birth. I propped those feet and ankles against my face and kissed them when we fucked. She would dawdle with a stirrer and comment on the kisses over coffee and video games.