Written after a painful breakup, and my first.
The clock struck four. In the hollow doorways and corridors of the stone building. The smallest noise echoed itself infinitely, until it’s sound covered the walls like paint. It would be easy to recount each step, of course. I remember it all. I can’t remember what I was thinking then, only that I sated my fears with thoughts of the trivialities of the New York Knicks. Not that I had ever shown an interest before.
I do remember the call he had sent me. We were together for what must have been a year. He broke it off, said he found someone else. And yet, he mustn’t have been too happy. I even remember thinking that the call was a joke, some kind of sarcastic reminder of why I should have hated him. Yet, I knew soon enough that he was serious, he sounded nervous. He was always nervous about the things he wanted the most.
I, of course, knocked over my coffee and ran, headlong, to the Bridge that overlooked the harbour. They called it Gold, but it would always be orange to me. It was the sight of that off-red bridge that excited me. I imagined running to him, tackling him to the ground.
And yet, here I am, five minutes from the corrider with the endless echoes. A day from my run around the city. A year from when I had loved him. And here he was, lying at my knees.
They say the waves crushed his lungs from the impact.