When the daylight has faded

When the shine turns to rust (#lock)

The young woman fumbles with her purse, pulls out an object and turns to the tall guy standing next to her. He takes the object gently from her outstretched palm with one hand, pulling her close with the other. She snuggles into him.

Sitting on the bench across the road, I can't hear what they are saying. But I don't need to. Inevitably, their conversation will sound profound to them, but like scripted trash talk of a cheap reality TV show to everybody else.

"I love you so much, baby!"

"We'll stay together forever. Nothing can come between us!"

"When I look into your radiant (insert appropriate colour) eyes, I see the sunrise on a sunny day."

"Let this be the symbol of our unbreakable bond!"

Declarations of undying love over, the pair fixes the shiny, red, heart-shaped lock to the bridge next to a myriad of other shiny, red, heart-shaped locks, then tosses the key over the railing into the lake below.

I snort in disgust.

Naïve little idiot! Five years down the line, the shiny, red, heart-shaped lock on the steel bridge will have become obsolete, while the figurative shiny lock that bound them together will have rusted away, turning the shine into a brown flaky mess. He'll be looking for the bolt cutters to break him free from the clutches of a lock that is ugly but unyielding.

I know I'm being unfair. After all, I was the idiot standing on that same bridge not too long ago. I squint my eyes, trying to find our lock, dirty and covered in rust, as my mind wanders back to the small fortune I spent on lawyers and new furniture last year after she left me for a new and shinier lock.

The couple on the bridge is sealing the deal now with a passionate kiss. I can practically see heart bubbles rising from their interlocked lips into the atmosphere.

"Don't be such an idiot!" I want to shout across the road at the man whose cheeks are flushed with arousal now. "Go three hearts to the right and up ten rows. Read the inscription!"

But of course, I don't do any such thing. On the contrary, I huddle deeper into my hoodie, hoping the new and improved version of me holding her tightly offers enough distraction that she won't notice me.

I have no idea why I torture myself by coming to this bench every day during my lunch break. It's stupid, I know. Still, what divine driving force found it funny to ambush me like this, reflecting her new eternal love off the steel bars of the bridge straight onto my gluten free sandwich? I'm not gluten intolerant, but the 'free' had sounded so appetising, I couldn't resist the purchase. Like everything else in my life, the product can't keep what it was promising on the packaging. The sandwich tastes like the inside of a hoover bag, just like my freedom.

My phone buzzes.

"Dad, I'm scared. Mum left hours ago with some man, and I'm hungry."

Barely stopping myself from strangling the bitch on the bridge, I calm down my son, then dial my lawyer.