Molly tightens her seatbelt. Brad tightens his grip on the wheel. He turns down the volume and the song turns to a whisper. The white Honda Accord is the only car on the road, it’s headlights slicing a thin beam through the fog. He reaches for her hand and she jerks it away. His hand stalls, wavering between reaching out again and pulling away. He returns his hand to the wheel and focuses on the road.
No, I have no idea how this relates to mist. Fog? Maybe. I thought about writing on Sierra Mist. Diet Sierra Mist. I have nothing tonight. I feel lobotomized. That paragraph took me about 15 minutes. Yeah, that shitty paragraph about absolutely nothing. 15 minutes… because I’m watching “Snapped” (people are fucking nuts, y’all) and, um, playing with MacBook photo booth: