Bridges
The bench is cold beneath her feet as she stands, shoulders tall, looking on into the distance. Sounds surround her, but the world is devastatingly silent. Onlookers stare at her, clearly questioning her sanity. But she does not hear or notice them, does not give them a glance. Children who pass are cautioned, stay away from the psychopath. But still she stands there, for hours at a time, simply searching, hoping she will find what it is she is looking for, until it catches her desperate, pleading, blue eyes.
To them she is the crazy, the lost, the girl that must be avoided. Yet clearly, she is the most interesting sight on this crowded bridge. It is if she does not feel them here, as if the one she is looking for is invisible, one of a different kind. Or maybe it is that WE are invisible. To get inside this girls head is what I truly long for.
Me. The artist with the pencil. Watching her. Waiting for her to make a move. Each day she stands there, and she has, more than once, caught my thoughtful eye. Her’s is a story, a story that can rarely be written. I am mesmerized by this girl, and I wish that just once, her eyes would meet mine. That she would stop looking, stop watching, and realize that she does not need a story… for she already is one.
A thought occurs to me as I watch her. Maybe I could introduce myself? It would not be a challenge to walk up to her, to admire her more closely. Here is where I blend in, where her eye cannot see me. I fear her glance, I fear she would know that I am not worthy enough of her attention. I consider the pros and the pros and the cons, wondering aimlessly whether or not I should simply get this
over with. If I’ve learned anything in life, it is that admiring from afar will get you nowhere. But I’ve also learned the hard way that sometimes, people aren’t as special, kind, and downright amazing as they seem. Sometimes they will only become letdowns, who are merely judgmental and will never meet the expectations you had of them.
I sit there wondering for hours, trying to make my decision. The sky fades to a lonely dark blue, and soon the bridge is far less crowded. I have never stayed here so long before, fearful that she may see me if I did. If this happened, her beauty would only be ruined. She would realize, as all others before her had, that I was nothing. Surely I was not worth her time, and the second that she saw me…. the second distaste flooded that beautiful face of hers… my dreams would turn to smoke, floating into the cold October air, a wall of lies between us; the man who dared to dream, and the girl who filled them all.
I sigh, growing nervous as the bridge empties. My pad of paper is still empty, and I flip through the pages, disappointment written across my face. There could be a life, here. An interesting, breathtaking, important, inspirational life. But still there is nothing. This beautiful girl, the possibilities, the cool, icy water beneath us… none of it brings inspiration to my heart, or to this blank paper in my hands. I do not stand on this bench… instead, I sit. I am not barefoot, and I am not deemed as crazy. They do not see me searching for the words, for the love, or for the answers. But still I do, all the same. The two of us are clearly different, but secretly alike in so many ways.
Suddenly, a voice interrupts my cluttered thoughts.
“Looking for a story?” it asks, surprising me. How could she know?
I look up, prepared to meet my new acquaintance. Social encounters usually petrify me. According to the doctor, this is something that can be overcome. But according to me? Well, I’m not too sure. Self confidence is a rare quality in our decaying world. At least in mine, that is.
But this encounter? Somehow… it seems all too natural.
I look into this strangers eyes, preparing to make a fool of myself. There are only so many ways you can humiliate yourself, but somehow I’ve managed to complete them all. Yet here I am, on a bridge, somewhere past midnight, about to talk to a stranger. This is completely unlike me. Then again, she’s the one who approached me.
My eyes meet hers, slowly but surely. It is far too dark to take in all of her features, but it is still easy to tell that she is beautiful.
“Actually…” I say slowly, looking her up and down, smiling. “I think I may have just found it.”
These words are not my own. These words belong to someone I used to know, to a man who died inside of me all too many years ago. To a confident, proud, fortunate man, who knew the world’s possibilities, and who knew that he could reach them. He knew himself, and he knew what he wanted. He knew how to act, he knew more about this world than I ever could. Her sparkling eyes have ignited a spark in me, have brought just a piece of this man back. I long for her company, I long to get to know her, piece by piece. I long to write her story.
We walk together then, pacing the bridge that is all too familiar to me. At one the bridge closes, and we proceed to the park. She tells me about herself, about her life. We are strangers, yet we know each other far too well.
It is 3 AM when the lights of my apartment finally come into view. A piece of paper is grasped between my fingers, and I have traced all of its edges. I have memorized the text scrolled across it, the seven numbers that fill it. Yet I keep it all the same, waiting to stumble across it in years to come. It will be a reminder, a memory of the day that I found my story.
I wake up in the morning with the imprint of my notebook pressed upon my face. It is halfway full.
When I proceed to the bridge, the girl I watched for years is no longer there. I search frantically, disappointment flooding into my veins like poison. “Relax,” I whisper to myself, attracting a few stares. The water below me ripples, and I decide to retreat to my bench. She will return. She’s only late…
My bench comes into view, and suddenly I feel sick. The silhouette of a girl lingers there, adding more poison to my frightened heart.
Determined, I approach her, fear pulsing through me. Should have stayed home…
But then, recognition…
“Hi,” she says, looking at me through a veil of beautiful, brunette hair.
I simply gape, like a moron, shocked.
“H..Hi,” I stutter, surprised to recognize her voice.
“Remember me?” she asked, smiling once again.
Stunning me, mesmerizing me, completing me…
“Well…” I smile, surprising myself once again, “guess you’re still looking for a story?”
She shrugs, examining me, pursing her lips.
She no longer stands, but remains just as mysterious.
“I might have just found it…”
