Maeve had always liked the fog. On rare sunny days, tourists–who would not label themselves such–would infest her town. They braved the windy road that followed the coast, descending towards the beach like it hadn’t existed until the fog lifted. She used to think people genuinely didn’t know about her little town, that the mist was too thick, and only its dissipation notified the rest of the world that her beach hadn’t gone extinct. She hated this and the sunniness and decided she liked the fog and the wind. She liked how little was demanded from her when it was cold and dark. She liked that there was no expectation for her to pretend she enjoyed the Pacific or even to go outside. She liked that people associated fog with unhappiness because it gave her the freedom to be however she wanted, no questions asked. Or if they asked why she was unhappy, and she responded “it’s just too cold out there,” then that was it. Her unhappiness could be blamed on the weather and no one gave it a second thought. She didn’t have to be nauseated by the culture of her town in those moments. The surf culture–one that elected to just be happy and decided that nothing mattered much other than if the swells were rideable–was what nauseated Maeve. She didn’t like that everyone was so weakly happy all the time. Even her father’s smile, one that seemed like a bad break would crumble his entire face, made her sick to her stomach. It was not joy, not sorrow. Nothing intense ever punctured the layers of fog. They played in the waves, surfed all day, slept with the tides still rocking them in their mind's eye, and did it again, again, and again. All with very thin, breakable smiles.