One

I stepped forward onto the foggy street. It was not foggy in the English way – cold, damp seeping through my clothes and onto my skin and further into my bones. The mist was warm, hot and tasted delicious. Like if I tried hard enough I could open my mouth and the air would taste sweet, easing down my throat to warm me from the inside.

I did not need to be warmed. I raised my hand to wipe the slight moist from my upper lip – any attempt at cosmetics would no longer be made; the foggy city had quickly taught me that any attempt for vanity would sweat away.

The street was full of people. People who had something to do but were in no particular rush to get there and do it. A man crossed in front of me, attempting not to stare at the tall white, leggy woman who so obviously did not belong there. Another lesson stored earnestly in my mind: the innocent dress bought in the comfort of an air-conditioned mall did not translate well onto the concrete men-filled streets here.