"It's fog. And it isn't brown. It's fog."
Fine. Whatever.
It was Sunday afternoon and we were driving back into town. The road ahead vanished into a mocha haze. There was no horizon, only a wall of... "fog".
The air here has been horrible for days, but the boyfriend has been in denial about it. He has a vested interest in believing we don't live in a toxic sinkhole and I wasn't in the mood to argue about it.
He even stuck to his theory later in the evening when the local weather report labeled the air "hazardous". Days like this are designated "no burn days", meaning you're prohibited from burning wood.
Or books.
Or witches.
They also helpfully reminded us that we couldn't burn trash.
Really? Burning trash? Who does that anymore? Listen - I'm no Nancy Drew, but I think we may have stumbled on an important clue in "The Case of the Oxygen Depleted Dead Zone".
At any rate, later that evening I stepped out in to the backyard for a smoke, Mary be damned. I was gazing up at the stars - both of them - when suddenly the sky was slashed by a falling star!
At least I think it was a falling star. It might have been flaming space debris. Everyone else dumps their garbage here, so why not NASA? Although they clearly didn't get the memo about burning trash.
Whatever it was, it was pretty, and it occurred to me I should make a wish. And then I...
Just. Went. Blank.
Couldn't think of a thing.
It was several moments before I even thought of the standard fallback "to win the lottery", but by then I think the statute of limitations on wishes had passed.
So it's come to this. I no longer even have any wishes anymore.
How sad is that?
