Bridges

We had danced on a bridge that night. I was back there now. I was caught again in a haze of mottled perfumes drifting up from the party boat moored in the river below. I looked over the edge and saw silky heads bouncing through a partially opened window. The music drifted downriver, each BPM skimming off the tiara crowned ripples.

That night. Four months ago. Too many cheap cocktails in a cheap place, pictures of parrots behind the bar, never a good sign. We came down the steps to the riverside. 'Look, bridge!' she had shouted. The thing with bridges wasn't new. We had been on so many, looking down on rivers, railways and shit filthy canals. I never asked her why. There are worse things to be hooked on. The fragments of dance beat floating up was enough for us to dance, we weren't in time, too many 'booms' never made it to our ears.

I wish I had stayed. My head was contorted with margaritas and I wanted to puke. At the end of the bridge was a stairway down to the river. I let it fall from my mouth and dribble down the stones steps. I stood straight and looked across the river.

Perhaps she lost sight of me and ran. Maybe the splash I heard wasn't the wake of a tug.

I stand and nod to the fractured beats. This is the fourth bridge tonight, there's another three on my list. I can see why she loved them now.