"Please tell me what floor you would like," said the elevator girl.
"176th" answered the middle aged man.
"Floor 176. Alright sir."
"The 328th," said the young woman. She had really nice legs.
"Yes ma'am, floor 328."
"413th," I said.
"I'm very sorry," said the elevator girl, sounding genuinely apologetic. "This elevator only goes to the 390th floor."
“Lame," I sighed. "I left 3 pairs of socks up on the 413th."
“You’re welcome up to my place,” the young woman with nice legs softly whispered to me. “It’s on the 328th, but it’s much better than some old socks.”
It’s where I truly wanted to be.
She had an amazing room. Everything, from the lighting to her taste in furniture, the music playing in the background, the degree of air conditioning, even the softness of the carpet: all of it was perfect. Every little bit of it was exactly right for me, as if she had gone and figured out my tastes beforehand.
If I were James Bond, this is the part where I would have started getting suspicious, but lucky for me I wasn’t James Bond. Neither was I Mike Hammer, Lew Archer, or Philip Marlowe for that matter either. Isn’t it great being an ordinary citizen?
As we sipped some well-chilled champagne, we talked at length about things like music, literature, sports, and the tending of tropical fish. The only thing still bothering me was the fact that I still had those 3 pairs of socks back up on the 413th floor.
“Oh right, the socks!” she said, as she took my hand and led me into another room where she smoothly and soundlessly opened a large, mahogany wardrobe. Inside of it were close to 2000 pairs of socks of various colors, all of them neatly rolled up into balls and stacked as if they were precious jewels.
“Do you like them?”
“They’re... wonderful,” I breathed with a sigh. “Oh so very wonderful.”
“If you want them, they’re all yours!”
I drew her towards me, putting her lips against mine. Her nightgown fell gently to the floor.
And that’s why I now own 2000 pairs of socks.