I bet it’ll be a warm night, free from the normal humidity of summer

I bet it’ll be a warm night, free from the normal humidity of summer. The midnight canvas will be clouded by a thin fog, muffling the bright of the moon. The bridge, in the center of such a tiny world, will stretch on forever – its width disguising that it might be a bridge at all.

Yellow street lamps will line the walk on either side of the roadway. Not one will be broken or flickering, cracked or burnt. The road is new but the design imitates older days – ‘a timeless effect’ the papers explained. The walkways by the wall are brown cobblestone and the wall itself is a sandy rock red.

Beneath the structure the water is still – undisturbed by rapids, waterfalls, or damns. So still that no one looks down anymore. Eyes will skim the chest-high barrier and travel farther to the towers and colored light on the horizon. Below the inhabitants wait – quiet, controlled.

At the time of night the bridge is empty. For miles all is deserted; the night-owls and wanderers lurking some other road with yellow lamps.

That’s when I’ll come.

The bridge will first know me when I walk across in the middle of the road – following the fresh painted yellow that will lead straight. I shall leave my hair loose and my feet bare so that I can feel stray strands brush my eyelashes in the wind and the smooth heat that lingers in the pavement.

The dress covering my rawness will be blue – pale like a sunless summer sky remembering winter. The sleeves are short, the neckline swooping, the skirts wide, and the fabric silk. Like Cinderella or maybe Sleeping Beauty in reverse. But I have no tiara – I am not a princess.

Halfway across I will break away, treading the unmarked path with a confidence I will never know I possessed. The new texture of stone brings me to the wall.

Peering over the edge I will see nothing. No water or life – barely even black. Just down. When I close my eyes, shutting the yellow lamps out, the scent will fill me with purpose and I’ll know something is waiting. With gentle and precise movements I will climb upon the wall. Standing there my gown will billow; my hair shall dance in a restless wind. Behind me I’ll notice the lamps still lit and the street still empty; my path still unmarked. It shall be as if I never came.

I’ll turn away.

I will not look down again. Now I’ll look to the midnight canvas, clouded in a thin fog, muffling the bright of the moon. And I’ll think maybe that’s a star poking through . . .

Then everything will be dark.

Silence broken by the stir of the river.