Breath of Winter

Vog; the sulfurous smell like something’s rotten. It’s been Christmas since October, people manic, traffic crushing, ambulance/police/fire-truck sirens constant in Makiki. I emerge from my cave. The Holidays! Shortness of breath, trembling, creeped out by the throngs under fluorescents, registers’ beeps and blips at Ross on Ke`eaumoku. Clutching my purse, I shove my way out of an aisle. Two grinning men careen close, the one with the beard blowing loudly through his mouth, Ho! just as I take a deep breath, inhaling his fetid exhalation. The odor lingers in the deep caverns of my sinuses even when I’m safely home.

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