The Year of Fog Read Online Free PDF

to the slide projector at the same time, and when our hands touched, there was a quick fuzz of static electricity.
    “Sparks,” he said.
    I smiled.
    We pushed through the crowded hallway, a chaos of backpacks and cell phones and iPods, a hothouse of colliding pheromones. The place felt unpredictable, unsafe, as if at any moment a gun might be drawn or a knife fight might break out. A skinny kid in a sagging sweater gave Jake a high five, and a girl in a vinyl miniskirt blew him a kiss. Several students shouted his name. I wondered how he’d managed to earn their trust. I’d never liked teenagers, even when I was one myself. I assumed the feeling was mutual; surely they could see right through me, could sense my dislike and smell my fear.
    “What subject do you teach?” I asked, swiveling to avoid a television being wheeled through the hallway by an obese, balding boy.
    “Philosophy.”
    “Do you like it?”
    “To be honest, I only get one section of philosophy per year. The rest is soccer and American History.”
    “A renaissance man.”
    “More like a hired gun,” he said. “Who roped you into this?”
    “During a moment of weakness I volunteered for Artists in the Schools. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind; I had visions of cute little third-graders in jumpsuits and pigtails.”
    “What kind of photography are you into?”
    “Whatever pays the bills. Mainly corporate events and weddings, with a sideline in photo restoration.”
    “My mom was a photographer,” Jake said. “Trains, landscapes, abandoned streets. It was just a hobby, but she was pretty good. I’ve often wished that she’d passed that talent on to me.”
    We emerged from the damp, fluorescent interior into sunlight. From the parking lot I could see the ocean in the distance, and the fog line circling the city, a bright white necklace around a patch of brilliant blue. Jake loaded the slide projector into the trunk of my car, shook my hand, and said, “I guess this is where we part.” He seemed to be waiting for me to disagree, but it had been so long since I’d approached a guy for a date, I couldn’t remember how it was done.
    “Thanks for the help,” I said, silently willing him to ask for my number. Instead, he gave an awkward salute and started to walk away.
    I was turning the key in the ignition when he reappeared at my open window. He placed his hands on the windowsill and leaned toward me. “Hey, busy tomorrow night?”
    “Actually, I have two tickets to the Giants game.”
    Jake was surprised. “Really?”
    “Meet me by the statue at six-thirty.”
    “I’m there,” he said.
    I waved goodbye in my best I-do-this-all-the-time fashion. Driving home, I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on the windowsill and the endearing way his right foot turned slightly inward when he walked.
    When I arrived at the Willie Mays statue the next night, Jake was already there. Over a dinner of hot dogs and garlic fries, he asked dozens of questions, somehow charming me into revealing a comprehensive list of my past employment, the lengths of my former relationships, the contents of my CD collection, even the name of a champagne-colored cocker spaniel I had when I was seven. Neither one of us paid much attention to the game.
    As the eighth inning came to a close, I dusted crumbs off my lap and said, “I feel like I’ve been through a job interview.”
    He shrugged. “I just ask the important questions.”
    “Am I hired?”
    “Depends. Do you want the job?”
    “I don’t know much about the company.”
    By then, the Giants were up by eight. “Did you drive?” Jake asked.
    “I took Muni.”
    “Good, I’ll drive you home.”
    Later, we stood outside my apartment for a long time, making small talk, neither of us knowing quite how to end the date. After a few minutes he put his hands in his pockets, looked at the ground, and said, “How do you feel about kids?”
    I laughed. “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? You