Three friends were supposed to fly down from Auckland this weekend, but all flights were cancelled into Wellington airport because of fog.
‘Damn you fog,’ I yelled from the veranda, shaking my fist at hills I knew were hidden behind the white nothingness.
I’d been holding out for a break, writing the same sentence over and over for the past three days. I’d run out of conjunctions. Run out. There were no more conjunctions to be had.
‘I want to go drinking,’ I shouted at the fog and anyone down on the street who came between me and the fog.
I drank a bottle of wine to myself. My mother had a cider. The night air smelt chilled and exciting. I was about to go out bar crawling with my Mother and her partner. I was game - and quite drunk. There were things I needed to do.
Three straight bars and one gay bar later, they left me and I chatted to some temporary friends. Someone cute wanted to pay beside me, so I make it as difficult as possible.
‘You probably won’t call again,’ he said before I’d even finished my pick up line.
‘I hardly know you,’ I said.
He rolled his eyes.
‘You’re all the same.’
His apartment was on the third floor. The lift had a wooden interior, the varnish scraped off by so many vandals.
I think I took off all my clothes which shocked him. I was hot.
‘Do you have any water?’ I asked.
I looked around the room and noticed there was nothing on the walls - no pictures or posters or post cards - and when I woke up the morning the fog had finally gone.