Enveloping mist had kept the woman hidden till he was almost upon her.  He had to fling himself at her feet to avert a collision.  She shrieked, and yet it was then her instinct to reach down and help him up.  I was blinded, he apologized.  She hesitated, but said that nothing had been all that clear to her either.  He grew to feel that this short exchange had led them to then share a thermos of coffee, and days later a meal, and still later a night, and finally two years of their lives.  It all came to what they both regarded its inevitable end when, out together in yet another dense fog, they nearly slammed into a tree.  He reached for her just as she was reaching for him, and they held on so, so each could confess that when at their first meeting they had apologized for the mist having blinded them, both had meant just that, that the mist had blinded them — and not, as each had needed to hear, I was blinded…by you.  It was a trick the mist had played on them at a time of need.  They concurred on that, too.  And they agreed that the mist would never really lift till they walked away from under it, out on their own.