The BRIDGE
by Mary James and Jean James
I hadn’t walked a block from my office building before the grey cloud cover shifted and let through a flood of sunlight. The magnificence of it seemed a travesty to my monotonous life, like an unfulfilled promise. It wasn’t a special moment that it should merit such a glorious display, though I’d long ago forgotten what a special moment was. This was just a “walk-across-the-bridge-to-lunch” moment. It happened every day, along with a series of many more such uninteresting moments, from that first moment in the morning when I gazed blearily in my cheap mirror at my apathetic, unshaven face, to that last moment each night when I crawled into my cheap bed in my cheap apartment.
The dark water below the bridge was the same dark water I stared at every noontime. It had a few more sparkles across its surface, but no doubt still wet and cold—just water. Birds soared overhead but they’d be there even if it were raining. They chased handouts, not sunshine. The same people passed me by as they hurried to their lunch spots, just as I hastened every day to my own favorite restaurant—the one big extravagance in my unextravagant life. Seldom did any new faces appear. It was a business area. Workers, not shoppers, not tourists, crossed that bridge.
Everything was in place that noontime. The buxom, tan-faced, hotdog girl stood at her post by her hotdog stand. Our newest employee, with straight, brown hair and straight back turned defiantly toward the rest of the world, ate her bag lunch at the bridge rail as usual. The three giddy girls from somewhere across the bridge, who made eyes at everyone they passed (though usually not at me), passed and talked loudly as if entertaining an audience. No doubt sometimes they were. The stout secretary, Jan, from the downstairs reception room of my office building headed in my direction and outstripped me. She was hungrier than I was. The truth was I always slowed down and let her beat me because it seemed to give her pleasure. Then there was the . . .
My complacency fell off the bridge with a large splash and sent up a spray of rainbow tinted promise. Through that spray my eyes met two wide-set green eyes coming from the opposite direction. For some reason I couldn’t turn away disinterested—as would have suited my mood. Those eyes gripped mine and proceeded to speak to me. They said wonderful things as they loomed closer and closer. I believe mine answered because I felt something flash out from me before I could reach up and stop it—and I was glad for once to be too slow.
With my eyes still lost in those approaching green depths, my peripheral vision registered a well shaped head crowned with short, sleek, dark-brown hair. A bright wave of clinging white dress wrapped its way around a slim waist girded only by a narrow red belt. Somewhere below the next curve, unending, long legs carried everything along with perfection. The entire picture reeked of culture, depth, mystery—and invitation. I started to render a happy “hi” when the friendly eyes darkened in disinterest. The green depths slid away in another direction as the vision passed by, and my hi careened too low to be heard
I walked stupidly on, like a programmed mannequin, and tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. I hoped I’d never see her again and at the same time planned what I’d do the next time she passed. Would those magnificent orbs slash me deeply again? Would they ever shine again the genuine interest I saw in them before their shutters closed?
All that night I hardly thought of anything else, and I was more than ready to step out and be swamped by the same wave when lunchtime arrived the next day. I waited on my end of the bridge and knew I’d go hungry before I’d miss my opportunity. Within minutes she approached—same eyes and legs, different dress. I put on my best business manner and proceeded to cross as close to her as possible without looking ridiculous.
I willed those eyes to look my way—and stood there dumfounded when they actually did lock with mine. They locked, looked me over, and dismissed me as surely as the day before—and much more quickly. The green gaze drifted toward the distant horizon and I was left with only the scent of her perfume and the rhythmic clip of her high heels on the pavement. So much for yesterday’s blissful meeting of souls.
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