|The Fog of Life (standard:non fiction, 813 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: Aug 20 2018||Views/Reads: 151/51||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
The sea fog sullenly hangs about the hills above Sausalito, clinging to the atmosphere and the Golden Gate Bridge rendering the whole of existence a dull gray colour. Every little while sliding down the yacht masts, creeping along Main Street, fog fits into doorways, and everywhere else, so that only the ferry can be seen but not San Francisco across the Bay. The yacht has not been cleaned since sometime during winter, and I don't feel ambitious enough for such an undertaking this late into the summer. One morning, about nine o'clock, several weeks ago the bank of fog came ashore. First, with an opening about the size of your hand, and through it the western sky showed a bright blue. Then another opening, and through it shone the sun, because where there is sunshine there is always fog to threaten its warmth. I call such openings a morning promise—implying, nothing reliable. But it was more. The fog began to show thinner and move faster along the headland ridge. Then it gathered and lay heavy on the bridge, heaped up like snowy wool. Were I to venture through the Robin Williams tunnel, after my visit to the doctor in Sausalito, there will be nothing to see save the clear, blue sky and the sunshine. I felt somewhat weary with walking—and idleness—and looked forward to the doctor's couch and conversation. “A cigar?” asked the doctor. “Yes, a cigar,” I answered. “I have smoked only six today.” “Beer or whisky and water?” “Whisky,” I replied. I lit my cigar, inhaling deeply of its fragrance—then exhaling through mouth and nostrils. I sighed with contentment; the cigar was excellent. We drank the whisky at our leisure. I reclined against the head of the couch, stretched out my feet, was conscious of a luxurious sensation—and sent my thoughts for a moment across the Bay, where they preferred to remain. The doctor was in low spirits. He talked about the State of his country being divided by Trump. I didn't care. I wanted him to tell me how it would feel to die. My favourite pastime is to listen to others speaking. I never seem able to think of any topics worthy of conversation myself, but I am almost inclined to say that my ability to listen amounts to an art. I can remain silent with an air of absorbing interest, and once in a while offer brief comment, not to set forth an opinion or display any knowledge—for I have none to spare—but merely to suggest new channels to the speaker and introduce variety, that he may not tire of hearing himself speak. I felt extremely comfortable on the couch. I thought it particularly entertaining to hear the doctor tell how it felt to die. There is always something pleasantly exciting about death—when it is reasonably far away from you. It seemed so beautifully far away from the perfume of the tobacco-smoke, the flavour of whisky, and the restfulness of the couch, and when my mind wandered to her—as wander it would in spite of my studied attention—then death seemed so far off shore that I could scarcely follow the description of how it felt to die. I don't want to die, I really don't. Can it be that the old devil in my heart is tipsy—at the height of the romantic season—and the coming of the fog? I mentally queried. Click here to read the rest of this story (30 more lines)
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