the fog

"Look at the fog."

"I'm looking."  The fog was not yellow, but a flat, opaque gray that looked more dry than wet.  It crept slowly along the wall, teasing around a corner, never rising above their knees.

"Does it look like a cat to you?"

He paused.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I guess it kind of does."

"Isn't it weird to think that T.S. Eliot did that to us? Even now?"

"What?"

"T.S. Eliot.  The reason the fog looks like a cat."

"Baby, I'm not even sure who T.S. Eliot is.  I'm pretty sure it's not his fault the fog looks like a cat."

She stared at the fog, sinuous, serpentine, not feline in the slightest.  "I don't know," she said.  "I think we don't get to pick what we see when we look at things.  I think everything that came before means we -"

"It probably looks like an otter, too.  And a puppy.  Come on, it's cold."

"And when I look at you -"

He turned to leave, and the fog wrapped itself around his ankles, and her mind made a sudden leap.