I have a story.
Hear me out.
Please.
It’s about Mandy.
We were sitting on the bridge—that short one right off the freeway—, our legs dangling off the edge, pulled down towards the cars below, and she turned to me, smelling of smoke and cherries. “X,” she said, her voice hoarse. “If we jumped, do you think it’d hurt?”
Yes, I wanted to answer.
“Depends,” I said in response, “On the motive."
“Love?”
I leant forward, and still, this dawn, I can remember the way her eyes fluttered downwards, like I wasn’t beautiful enough, not complex for her sight. But then she looked up at me, and let out a chuckle that would've made my old grampa Frank cry. Her eyes looked into mine.
We kissed.
But, if we’d jumped, I know damn well it still would’ve hurt.
