Across the Brooklyn Bridge

1

11:26 PM - 13th February 2015

"I really shouldn't drink tequila."

AS JULES MUMBLES THESE words of wisdom to herself, she reposes her wearied physique against the brick exterior of Valencia. Regardless of the pulsating ache in her forehead, she couldn't be happier to have retired from the clammy multitude within the night club. Jules exhales pure relief. To attend a social gathering alongside two extroverted friends is like entering an Italian family reunion, unaccompanied. It's unreservedly overwhelming. Arielle and Sutton, however, are familiarised with the customs and habits of the social hierarchy that thrives within New York. It doesn't surprise Jules, as both friends share an inventory of useful acquaintances and participate actively in this unworldly crowd. New York might as well be a different universe, all together. The social categories, agile determination and the tall, menacing skyscrapers.

To Jules, New York is simply a man made jungle comprised of square boxes. It's an ideal habitat for the consumerist individuals that constitute the ambitious population. It is also, regardless of her opinion, Julianne's home.

"Jules. Where are you? Sutton said she saw you slip out through the emergency exit," at the sound of Arielle's naturally apathetic utterance, Jules' jaw clenches in guilt. With a feeling of nausea submerging her in the heart of a humid, dusky room, Jules didn't see an alternative but to flee for fresh air. If New York's atmosphere can still be deemed as unpolluted.

"I'm outside. I think I'm going to take a walk before grabbing a cab home," Jules yawns, tugging her coat closer to her quivering figure. It's the middle of February and mother nature doesn't show sympathy.

"Alright. Take care of yourself, J. I'll see you tomorrow morning," Arielle struggles to outdo the volume of hammering music, but manages to articulate a handful of sincere words. When the call ceases, Jules slides the device into the pocket of her thin jacket. It's not uncommon for her to wander off during group outings. She tends to bore easily, even among the most peculiar people and most remarkable circumstances. Therefore, a walk amongst Manhattan's brick apartments presents itself as the perfect opportunity to empty ones thoughts.

Hours later and Jules passes another glimmering lamppost, she notices an unusual trail of smoke crawling up into the night sky from a dimly lit stairwell. Fascinated by the unordinary motion emerging from the darkness, she draws closer. Curiosity isn't a virtue Jules is conversant with.

"Hello," a voice, smooth and masculine, speaks up. Jules tilts her head in inquisitiveness and finds herself strangely intrigued by the mystery of the situation. She cautiously approaches the stone steps that engender a path to an apartment building. It's conspicuous that the party above the stairwell is wordlessly inviting all of Brooklyn. Except, what seems to be, this one lonesome man.

"Hello stranger," Jules says calmly. The interval between herself and the stranger on the stairs has decreased to barely five, minor steps. This grants her an unmistakable image of the stranger's profile. Suddenly, the stranger becomes far from a stranger. Identifying the impeccable features of Charlie J. Dawson, even eight tequila shots can't erase this man's countenance from Julianne's train of thoughts.

There was once a time when Jules, as cold-hearted as she can be, was in love. But her biggest mistake was believing the boy she loved, loved her too. After discovering her long-term boyfriend, Logan Mueller bedded the daughter of his chemistry professor, Lola Bellingfield, Jules was discouraged. She sauntered the streets of Oxford with a cheap bottle of Tesco's finest wine in a dress that was meant for a celebratory dinner. That's when Jules found Charlie. It was also, a night of bizarre experimentation, on Julianne's behalf. Despite the course of the night, Jules holds the memory dear. She reminisces watching Charlie leave for Heathrow in a beat-up blue volvo while she waved him off in a pair of army-green wellington boots and a shirt that was most-definitely not hers. But that is a story for another time.