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"I remember a science fiction story I read years ago," I say. Her
hand is warm in mine. The air is chill. "In that story, fog is the result of alternate dimensions coming together. They don't quite fit,
and the world gets blurred."
We walk through the fog in the night. It clings, cold and thick and damp.
"I wonder what sort of worlds are trying to get into this one," she
says. She clasps my hand tighter and pulls herself closer to me.
Her laugh is silvery, high and clear, but the sound is swallowed by
the fog. Between the strangled islands of light underneath the street lamps, the night presses close and hungry. I hurry her on. Her heels
click on the sidewalk, the sound striking at the malice that waits unseen.
"Don't laugh," I say. Here between lights, the darkness closes hard.
Black oily flickers seem to move at the periphery of my vision. The only sound is our footsteps, tiny pathetic blows at walls as soft and
insistent as death.
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