The Bridge

The city rained in the neon versus sodium lights. The glare of the yellow outdid the fluorescent hush of the neon green. The silent corner of the city lay on the bridge. Few saw it lonely, few felt it was crowded enough to make love. Someone somewhere had very aptly said, ‘It needs a dark corner to make love whereas the darkest torture is done in broad daylight’.

He had stood there for an hour now, looking through that door, at her. The bar was dim. All that shone was she. “She looks dashing with that purple scarf”, he whispered to himself. “Should I go and offer her a drink?”, he thought. He stared and stared. She never looked back.

The night city saw him against the bar of the bridge, leaning forward, to have a deep look at the waters, as if in search of some long lost truth hidden in there. “She had to take up that barmaid job after all”, “Why couldn’t she opt for something else?”, “Does her family know about it?”… ran through his mind. The cigarette ran out. The smoke twirled around his fingers and his lips and ended in some near destiny.  “Maybe I could have just gone in and said a ‘Hi’…”, he thought. “Why couldn’t I just push myself in?

     * * *

The bar had closed by then. She had the last customer, who had wanted to sleep with her. She had to flee from that place that night. She escaped.
The night city saw her on that silent corner- the bridge. She was drunk. Her eyes were red, her hair uncanny, her purple scarf hung down her waist. “He never came in”, she shouted in the dark. Tears ran down her throat. Her voice cracked in the dark. Somewhere maybe someone would hear her, she had thought.
The city was busy. No one even looked back. The coastguards were looking for people who attempted suicide. The police looked for places where they could make money. And the peddlers were beggers of time.
Only one heard.

* * *

The night was going to end. The shout was a loud one. Was someone in danger? Was someone asking for help? He stared through the same light that seemed to light up the whole city.
A fast walk, a mild jog, and then he ran. The left weak knee made him limp a bit. yet he ran.

* * *

She lay near the foot of the lamp post. “He saw me”, she thought. “He never came”, she uttered.
The stars were beautiful and then she heard footsteps near her. A mild run, someone ran, she understood. Maybe the footsteps were of someone who had a slight limp; she had heard them before, she thought.
And then, before she could see, she fell unconscious.

He saw the purple scarf down her waist and stopped.