Below, the water seethed.
Icy and treacherous, I could already feel its paralyzing sting, though I had yet to make my final plunge. Around me, snow swirled wildly in the winter wind. I admit, if I were not blinded by the snow and the darkness of the late hour, I wouldnt have had the courage for such a feat. I leaned over the slick railing of the bridge and vomited. Terror? Vodka? Who could say? And what did it matter? No one but me would remember this last act, so symbolic of the frail human condition. My body ached from the cold. I was gloveless and my leather jacket was worn thin. I lay my head against the railing, and the tears that ran down my wind-burned cheeks fused me with the metal.
I considered this momentarily.
I would love to be a bridge. I would love to have a purpose so certain and so clear. I would love to be taken care of, to have my needs carefully addressed by a team of professionals- architects, welders, urban planners. When I was no longer useful, I would be ob