Miasma

Mrs. Dubois rounded the corner of Twenty-First and Peach as she always did on Saturday mornings.  Directly in front of her, she could make out the silhouette of Walter Rotan's grocery, the only one within walking distance, through the fog.  It's been mighty heavy lately, this fog, she thought as she approached the double glass doors of the grocery.  Mr. Rotan had gotten them installed just last year, figuring that the unappealing oak door had been turning away customers.
"Mornin', Loretta," she heard bellowed from behind the shabby-looking counter.
"Likewise, Walter," she uttered, startled.  "How are you today?"
"Oh, I'm fine, but I'm afraid those tomatoes you asked for over the phone yesterday will have to wait.  You see, last week's storm wiped out Mr. Marel's entire garden.  I'm happy to tell you, h'ever, that I received a new batch of chocolates fresh from town the other day.  I understand Mr. Dubois's got quite an affinity for them.  Might'n that be true?"
"I'm afraid, dear Walter, that Jonathan hasn't been feeling well, lately.  I don't think now is the time to be stuffing him with sweets.  And don't worry about those tomatoes, I'm sure he won't be sampling any of the soup I had planned for him either," she said dejectedly, with a sigh.
"You don't say?  Well, here's the rest of your order.  Send Mr. Dubois my regards."
"Of course.  Have a nice day, Walter.  And do mind the fog as you're traveling home.  It seems to have lasted forever."  With that, Mrs. Dubois grabbed her meager bag of groceries and was out the door.



How odd, she thought as she walked up to her door, that he would be so interested in Jonathan's wellbeing.  He hardly knew the man.  "Jonathan," she called as she walked into the foyer.  A tall man dragged himself into view, coughing incessantly.
"What is it, Loretta?" he demanded as she headed for the kitchen.
"I just wanted to know how you were feeling, dear."
"I feel old and sick, woman.  Let me rest a bit, will you?" he stammered.
Oh, he makes me so angry, she thought as she opened up a box of cereal.  Mrs. Dubois never cooked in the morning.  In fact, she rarely cooked anything other than an occasional soup at all since her husband became critical of her cooking.



Jonathan Dubois staggered back to his couch.  He was 67 years old and had had enough of his wife's nagging.  He sneezed once and reached for the box of tissues on the floor.  There weren't any.
"Loretta, I need you to get me a box of tissues from the supermarket."
"But I just got back from the grocery.  Can't you give me a minute's rest, you tired old fool?" she bellowed from the kitchen.
"For crying out loud, I'm sick, woman!"
"Oh fine then," she said with an angry, exaggerated sigh following.  She grabbed her purse and was out the door.  John heard the car door slam and the engine come to life.  He lied down on the couch and turned the television to a golf match.  I might as well get some enjoyment out of her absence, he thought.
John felt a tickle in his throat.  He tried to subdue it with a coughing fit.  Then another.  And another.  John pressed his palm to his forehead.  It felt clammy.  John saw the room spinning.  Then he realized he was spinning.  He staggered toward the phone, collapsing halfway there.  With a cough and a stifled cry for help, Jonathan Dubois breathed his last.



Mrs. Dubois struggled to see through the fog.  I hope that wasn't my turn, she thought as she passed yet another illegible street sign.  It didn't really matter to her, though.  She didn't care about her husband's petty needs. She was sick of her marriage.
"Forty years of misery," she muttered as she sped down the highway.  She didn't realize it, but she had missed her turn.  "Forty years of misery and forty years of me trying to hide it." 
Now Mrs. Dubois was far away from the city, far away from her home in the suburbs, but she didn't notice it.  What she did notice, however, was that this fog was getting thicker.  And thicker.  Soon she could hardly see the road, but she didn't care.
"They told me not to," she ranted, "but I did.  I had to marry him," she complained, her tears stifled by her anger.  "I regret the day I married that old fool.  Not one kind word since the day he proposed.  Not one!"
She didn't know it, but she was nearly to the river, nearly to the bridge. A mile.  Half a mile.  Quarter of a mile, and the anger grew.
"I wish him dead!  I wish he would die already and give me a moment's rest!"  And with that, the fog cleared, revealing something in the road she probably shouldn't have seen:  a deer.  One instinctive jerk of the wheel sent her into the water.



Walter Rotan stood sweeping the dusty floor of his tiny shop at Twenty-First and Peach.  Loretta Dubois had been his only customer today, and he was convinced something wasn't quite right with her.  He had known for a while she had a tendency to become rather...bitter...at times, but there was something she said that perturbed him.
"'Mind the fog.'  Now, what did she mean by that?  It's been clear all day, and we ain't had a decent fog in months!  Crazy old fool," he mumbled as he continued to sweep.