the socks are carefully worn by the staff. it's not a normal thing. you need the right humidity and temperature to get it right. most places don't try and just put the spread on freshly-bought cotton ones.

then they serve them to you. the tacos are just the granish, really. a good polyester-nylon blend makes the cheese so memorable.

The sock store has a million socks.

A million regular, random socks.

All black and white with a single stripe.

Some are blue, some are green, red, yellow or teal.

All are one color, maybe two, maybe three;

none were supposed to have tacos parading up and down and back and forth.

I looked through bin after bin of single, maybe double, maybe triple colored socks.

I looked in men's, woman's, and children's.

Until I found them.

I bought those socks with tacos on them.

The socks that were knee high and bright yellow with tacos printed all over them.

The socks with striped red and green cuffs, sombreros scattered around the tacos.

I never wore a pair of sock so nice.

I wore them all the time.

They looked superb under my Sunday dress.

They even looked good at formal.

I'd buy another pair, but I don't suppose I'd find another.

It was a one in a million pair.

His suit was cut in a masculine style. The print was that of cute little babies.

His hair was short until you noticed the bun.

His brows were neat; his teeth were clean.

His smile was sparkling and full surrounded by his square jaw.

His socks were printed of little tacos (they matched the colors of the baby suit).

His fingers were illuminated by candles.

His name was Liberaci.

Do you ever look at someone and go “That’s the one”? For me, that moment is right now as I am watching the love of my life dance her heart out. With a bottle of Smirnoff Sour in one hand and a “microphone” (a pen) in the other, I have never felt so in love. Every once in awhile she sits to grab a “cinnamon crunchy” (cinnamon twist from Taco Bell) while smiling at her socks with tacos on them. When she is finally too tired to dance and her cinnamon crunchies are gone, she grabs her tortilla blanket, yawns “I am a sleepy burrito” and I tuck her into bed. It’s times like these that I know she is the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.

We used to be friends. I don’t know much about you now. We drifted apart. Our schedules changed and you could no longer fit me into your life, not around your classes, not around your job, and not around your baby. I only remember the person you were, when we used to be close. She was a person who was loud, resilient, colourful, a person who hoarded things that gave them joy: shiny pebbles, pink pens, patterned socks.

You are older now, grown. You are more mature now, having changed while I stagnated, sinking into myself. You are quieter now, more subdued, and sometimes I can see the core of the person you used to be, shimmering beneath the surface.

The gift is in my hands. I hold it out to you, and you look into the bag, peek underneath the crumpled tissue paper. I watch your face change, squirming.

"They're socks," I say. "Socks with tacos on them."

You raise your eyebrows.