Maria and Miguel argue outside in the fog, and my breath looks like exhaust. There is no bitterness or despair in me anymore. I am clean, and I am committed to you.
I will not leave one word out. You will know the whole story, I promise.
You can see the dogs’ breath, too, but they don’t seem to notice the fog. Briefly and independent of one another do they turn their heads to the couple on the street, the Spanish imploring.
The indie girl listens in her car to something that sounds a little like Bjork or Joni Mitchell, but also could be Sigur Ros or something else. She is indie, no doubt, and just the other day she was in a tête-à-tête with a gentleman caller of her own. Through the window, their body language was unmistakable.
It was like a series of still photographs laid out or shuffled very quickly like a deck of cards or cells of animation. Embrace, pull away, cross arms, look at the ground.
The dogs didn’t notice them.
Maria and Miguel have stopped. An engine in the fog reluctantly turns over, but I can’t tell if one or both of them got in the vehicle. I hope they did.