It was the most simple of questions

but one shrouded in mist

and complications,

like the no 53 bus making its

way down the Stanley Road in

unbearable fog, inching forward,

the tyres considering their way slowly

as the driver peered through the window

screen, his passengers wary of what lays

beyond the squeaky door

and the broad panic

as the mist devours the familiar.

 

“Can I buy you a drink”, she asks,

the sincerity in her voice catching

me off guard for a moment