The Bridge

I saw her standing alone on the bridge, shivering within the cold embrace of the autumn rain. A portrait of solitude, I fell to studying the lines of her loneliness. Her hair was wet and disheveled by the grieving skies, and the contrast of darkened eyes set deep in alabaster skin reflected the melancholy of the day. Thus she was weeping; her tears falling silently into the running waters below. Perhaps she was in hopes they would sweep her sadness out to sea, and yet as her tears mingled with the rushing current, I could not tell her anguish from the rain. Thus, I was moved by the ambiguity of her emotion, and set out to soothe the sorrow which seemingly tore at her heart.

As I slid my hand up the stone rail, I noticed the sharp radius of the bridge’s arc. Its spirit dampened by the rain as well, the smoothness of its paving stones appeared slippery. Regardless, I gathered a foothold on fate and started up the incline; seemingly, she was still unaware of my presence. Thus, with each careful step I felt the humility of labor in every stone. I admired the bridge’s design, an exquisite example of architecture hidden back in these prideful woods. It was seemed fitting that something so beautiful would traverse something so serene. Suddenly, I stopped; she was looking over her shoulder, and yet quickly turning away, curiously–pretended I wasn’t there.

Taking a deep breath, I carried on unassumingly, and yet with every step I felt my heart pound with concern. Perhaps she might jump–I could not imagine. Trying to put myself at ease, I continued to study the design of the bridge. The foundations on either side of the river appeared visibly sound, as if age had only strengthened them, and at the foot of each stood a single streetlamp, which glowed even in the gloom of the day. As I reached the apex of the bridge, I could feel the rush of the waters beneath me. Still, I felt secure enough upon its suspension to approach the poor woman and attempt to mend her despair. Sadly, I was met with considerable contempt.

She glared at me defensively, and drawing an air of disapproval, closed the curtain of her isolation. Consequently I felt quite disregarded, and yet it occurred to me that she was only allowing me within the perimeter of her presence. Apparently, she was more willing to allow me break my own heart upon hers than I thought. Thus, stepping through her ruse, I removed my raincoat and placed it gently around her trembling white shoulders. Pulling a length of hair behind one ear, she looked up at me halfheartedly, and seeing my Armani soaking up the weather, forced a smile. Taking my hand, she pulled it sympathetically beneath the shelter of the coat and squeezed it tightly.

“What took you so long –damn it?” She asked.

“Forgive me–I lost my keys.”

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010