A Web Exclusive Fog Life Michael Bergstein Upstairs, Vidalia shut off the lights, opened a window and sat on the edge of her bed, smelling the ocean. She remembered foggy nights when, as a girl, she'd tied the end of her kite string to the porch rail and unrolled the spindle as she walked down to the beach. To find her way back. But tonight only a slatternly line of thrumcaps barked diminishing hints. Vidalia's course through the obscure and pungent was marked by nothing but blind need, though this too was interlinked with sky and tongue, moon and island, stork, city and ship.
All matter is our cousins.
The universe is only shredded by men, she thought. Women take in the whole, expand, grow and revive. That was it. No radar was needed. A kiss convinced her of that.