Hot Fog

Posted on November 15, 2005 in Routine

It felt like fog, a hot fog that went nowhere, when I struggled out of a dream whose fragments fall through the grate of wakefulness. I rose despite a back that hurt as if a main muscle had suddenly turned into a whale, found my feet, and walked into the kitchen for a piece of carrot cake, a cup of milk, and my three morning friends: lithium, Effexor, and Lamictal. Then I asked Lynn to cede the computer as a prompt to get her to start readying herself for work. Through the blinds next to the computer, I saw that there was no fog at all, that tiny prisms lofting higher than water droplets colored the sky blue.

The temperature meter on my tool bar says it is only 61 degrees. I feel, however, that there’s a hot fog stretched over my skin like plastic wrap.

The best fogs are cool and keep moving.