We walked across the old bridge, ostentatiously painted electric blue. I didn’t think it a possibility that I could hold her hand then as I once did. Neither of her hands left the inside of her coat , so I kept mine pocket-bound as well. It was cold anyway, December I think, and the warming sun had long since moved on to more western horizons  for the day.

She would hardly look my way, and only a few words of small talk passed between us as we made our way over the dark body of water a hundred feet or so below us. Our feet rhythmically met wooden slats, sounding a distinctive creak that implied a bending due to time and wear. When others weren’t passing by with their muffled chatter, this was the only noise we heard when we couldn’t think of the next polite thin to offer up. And those thoughts were proportionally seldom, far-between. 

She was wearing a knit beanie, her amber hair cascading down from it in a neat braid. She always kept her hair well-brushed, her teeth perfectly clean, her makeup precise and not overdone. Crimson was her color of choice that day for a winter jacket-- she had many more to choose from. It was buttoned to the neck and and of fine material. Dark skinny jeans and genuine leather boots rounded out her appearance. I thought she looked better than ever, although she never did look bad. 

We diverted slightly about halfway across and made our way to the side of the bridge. We looked over the railing and the distance was reflective, if the water wasn’t: a large gulf lay between us and mutual understanding, mutual contentment. But we let time pass and walked on, as thoughts sorted and scattered in our individual psyches. Where to start, how to say this, and that?

We reached the end of the bridge. No more time to stall, time only to face the hard truth. I turned toward her, and her to me. 

"If you had to choose right now, would it be me or him?" The words left my mouth before I realized just how forward it was, how irrespective of traditional lead-ups in conversation. And her answer reflected this, after an exasperated sigh: 

"How do you expect me to answer that? Does it even matter..."

"Of course it matters!" I broke in. She stood in silence and looked at the ground, tracing an indiscriminate line there with her toes. I hardly saw this though, and my eyes stayed fixed to hers. Another moment passed, then she looked up again. 

"Are you ready to let me go?" I asked now, as straightforward as I could possibly think to put it. But she again found a way to dodge it, saying nothing at all but so much with a few words:

"It’s hard for me to decide when you look at me like that." I was caught off-guard by this statement, but wouldn’t show it. I kept looking directly at her, and more than one moment in time passed, me unaware that these represented the end of a hope, the death of a potential. I had tried to appear unaffected by the statement, acting like I knew its implication. Really, it was the time to be affected, and affecting. I should’ve kissed her then. By the time I realized it, it was too late. The moment had passed along on the light breeze.

She called me a week later. And kept it brief, straightforward herself this time. "You asked me if I would choose you or him. I choose him." A year would pass before I fully accepted this simple statement, these words that simultaneously cut and salted. 

Next Chapter: III