And now I am exhausted: exhausted of memory, of wanting something I cannot have, of just trying to live from day to day.
I turn to consider Russell. He stands only inches away, really. The bridge’s sidewalk is narrow, bordered by waist-high railings, one to protect us from the traffic whizzing by at speeds that seem well in excess of the forty miles per hour speed limit, and the other to protect us from the precipitous drop that, if it didn’t kill us, would leave us severely incapacitated for life.
The latter is something to consider.
“Why are you here?”
Russell smiles at the question, but looks a little lost, a little confused as if the answer to my query should be obvious, yet perhaps he doesn’t have the words to convey it. He runs a hand through his shaggy hair, locks me in his dark
