Le Pont de l'Europe
He stood there in his Sunday Best; a bright-blue suit. Now faded.
Life bustled around him, but he took no notice. He stared, longingly, over the edge of the bridge. The glistening rocks that carved up the stream seemed to stare back, beckoning. He could almost hear his beloved Adeline calling out for him from the shallow rapids.
A hideous cackle brought him out of his trance. It was a woman with a parasol’s boisterous response to her company’s witty remark. He decided to do it. He had waited long enough to hear Adeline’s sweet music of a voice. Ever since her accident, he had come to that bridge every day, and every day he would leave just a little more broken, further tormented by the loss of his poor wife.
Upon impact, the bridge’s activity halted. In the distance a barking dog could be heard, as well as a deafening feminine scream. But George heard not a scream, nor a bark, nor the mad dash of people running to peer over the bridge, no. George heard his angel say,
“I’ve been waiting.”