Natalie Schriefer Fog Foggy windows. One AM. Laughing as we ride the interstate at eighty, windows down, radio up. If we parked we talked for hours: music, family, near-death experiences— the time I had pneumonia and the day you almost drowned—and though the memories have faded in spots, the terror never goes away. When you start the car, windows foggy with the cloud of our breath, you turned on the defroster— and the heart you drew on the windshield melted away.
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