Where a bridge could lead
It was under the rubble of an old bridge that it all started. A bright rainbow-filled day that followed a rainy all-nighter. The clear, still water under the bridge reflected their smiling, still shy, faces.
No-one ever really knows what they’re getting themselves into.
At first sight it was all ideal. It was a meeting dominated by charm, delight, humour and those sneaky butterflies that roam around in your stomach when you’re super excited about something.
Intuition was asleep. Or, like us all, wasn’t sure about where all this would lead.
A bridge, though, is symbolic. It joins two parts.
Also part of Friday Fictioneers