Curling from the lake

There was a fog that was heady and thick, streaming outside the windows like an hourglass. You could barely see out of the windows and what you could see looked like fragments of a half-remembered dream, something that seemed fevered, photocopied, and real but was now fading lazily and mixing with childhood memories, things that had actually been real once but were now a soft-focus jumble of missing details and unconnected cameo characters. Still there was that fog, billowing like the breath of a shaman, encasing everything in its backhanded granduer and swampy mystery.

For his part, Antonio knew exactly what to make of it. "Girl, that looks like the smoke machine when I perform 'I Will Survive'. Get me a strobe light and some three-inch heels and you'll see a show right here, honey!" The Aztec laughed in her little way and they walked away talking about pancakes and diet soda.

Just like that the fog had been made banal.