by Yin Twig
Arthur Smith could barely see the guy who was fucking Hadrian’s Wall because the mist was obscuring the view. This mist was the tenacious and unrelenting. The thick fog had been there when since before their plane arrived in England yesterday morning, delaying the landing by an hour. It had continued for the entire three hour and twenty-six minute train ride from London to Carlisle yesterday afternoon. A full day later, and the mist was still everywhere in this grassy field dotted with little yellow flowers a half hour’s drive out of the city.