Driving a neon Chrysler from the 1960s, the fog's come down from the mountains again. It's been on retreat most of the summer, just curling around the bend on the old highway, blowing the shops full of vapors. Fog buys all the cheap wine coolers, the Thunderbird, the Wonder Bread, and promises to wash the debt behind the counter clean. It leaves everything damp like a promise it'll cash. Someday. When the rains come back.
Fog's a bum. Steals the light out of headlights, throws deer in the way of touring cars. Shine a light on it, and there'll be headlights shining back: that weirdly silent big boat of an automobile still running, despite everything. That thing hasn't been tagged since 1970.
Good for nothing, but oh so pretty, wistful and wavering, solid as a brick wall by the looks of it. Nothing to rely on, though.
But it's fall again, and it's down from the mountains. Rising up through grates, hand in hand with the winter rains, fog's back.
All debts are paid at the country stores: new debts are racking up in the town. But fog's never so pretty as when they dance with the neon lights, wraps itself around the tip of a cigarette: spills out into the street until the wee hours of the morning.
When asked where it's been, fog will tell you: I was here all along, never mind what that nasty sun told you all summer.
I was on retreat.
In the dim rains, fog will throw out long fingers of silver and toss back hair scarcely less burnished and smile coyly. Make promises it swears it'll keep this time. Just fix that Chrysler. Take me dancing. I'll pick up the tab, honey, when the next check comes in.
But don't believe 'em.
Fog's a bum.