Fog always puts me in a bad mood. I don’t recover from bad moods very well. This is one of my many unfortunate character flaws. Should you desire a full listing of said traits, surely my wife would be glad to produce it for you in bound hard-copy, or in whichever electronic format you might prefer.

My modus operandi: Things tend to get worse, rather than better. Now, whether this is generally accurate, or just a reflection of my deeply-ingrained pessimism, it is hard for me to say. Objectivity does not come easily for me. Tunnelvisioned, precisely-honed concentration comes easily for me.

As I drive us home through darkness, the fog outside the car is as dense as the conversation inside is sparse. My chest feels hot below the surface. I wonder how much time I have before the unsettling feelings envelop me completely.

She always tells me that I am too easily overcome. As if I did not know it. She tells me, “Breathe, dear.” And I do this. It is as though she forgets all we’ve been through.