In tenth grade as part of a creative writing workshop, I was tasked with writing a short story that involved a bridge...here's what I came up with.
Assumption
She was picking her toenails. I hate it when people do that, but she simply would not stop. Picking, that is. Her toes were a pickle-tinted lime green, my least favorite color. Her middle toe was longer than the other four, as if her toes were flipping me off. I hated her. I didn’t even know her. But I hated her. She was chatting with a girl named Molly on the phone. “Maaah-lee, just shut up, I said shut up!” Her voice squeaked liked a dying pig.
I realized that I had been staring. I had stopped mid-jog. I had taken off my headphones. Chopin was still blaring from the speakers. The girl looked at me. She stood up, swinging her Chanel bag, Juicy Couture pants bulging at the seams. Her brows scrunched together. Her lips pinched. Suddenly her eyes lit up and her mouth morphed into a giant ‘O.’ “Your Mike!” she exclaimed. I shook my head in denial. “Don’t lie, Mike. I know who you are. You remember me, right? From the red house, remember?” My throat felt dry as I racked my brain for some fleeting memory of the pig squealing in front of me.
Before I could react, she wrapped her pudgy little hands around my arm and dragged me up the sidewalk toward the center of the bridge. Cars zipped under us, as people in their separate bubbles rushed off to work. The pig loudly smacked her Pepto Bismal shaded lips and blinked twice. She then pushed her hips against mine and squeezed my torso with her free hoof. With her other hand she squealed into the phone. “It’s Mike,” she said. “Excuse me?” I said. “Mike” she said again.
“My name is not Mike,” I said. She hung up the phone and crammed it into her shirt. “Your name is Mike and I know you. You love me, Mike. You always have. I knew it was you from the way you were staring at me over there.”
“I am not Mike,” I said again. Only this time I said it in broken fragments of uncertainty.
“You are Mike. You have always been Mike, and you love me. We have been looking for you honey. Then we gave up. But, I always knew you would come back. We were so worried.”
“I- I am n-not Mi-”
“Then who are you?” She was staring ferociously into my eyes, grunting and snorting. “Who are you?” She said again. She pushed her blubbery body further onto mine, pressing me right up against the railing. “Who the shit are you, Mike?”
I panted. I attempted to breathe, but she was smothering me. Her pink flesh was encasing my body. My back was bent awkwardly, my neck stretched through open air. I remained silent. I stayed still. I waited. We waited. She blinked twice again, and let a sizeable chunk of air out of her flared nostrils. Her palm lifted to eye level and then swept itself across my face, stinging my flesh. “I am tired of your shit, Mike,” she said, gripping her bag and adjusting her underwear to its proper position. With that, she sauntered back to wherever she came from; leaving me bent over, halfway on the bridge and halfway nowhere in particular.
I realized that I had been staring. I had stopped mid-jog. I had taken off my headphones. Chopin was still blaring from the speakers. The girl looked at me. She stood up, swinging her Chanel bag, Juicy Couture pants bulging at the seams. Her brows scrunched together. Her lips pinched. Suddenly her eyes lit up and her mouth morphed into a giant ‘O.’ “Your Mike!” she exclaimed. I shook my head in denial. “Don’t lie, Mike. I know who you are. You remember me, right? From the red house, remember?” My throat felt dry as I racked my brain for some fleeting memory of the pig squealing in front of me.
Before I could react, she wrapped her pudgy little hands around my arm and dragged me up the sidewalk toward the center of the bridge. Cars zipped under us, as people in their separate bubbles rushed off to work. The pig loudly smacked her Pepto Bismal shaded lips and blinked twice. She then pushed her hips against mine and squeezed my torso with her free hoof. With her other hand she squealed into the phone. “It’s Mike,” she said. “Excuse me?” I said. “Mike” she said again.
“My name is not Mike,” I said. She hung up the phone and crammed it into her shirt. “Your name is Mike and I know you. You love me, Mike. You always have. I knew it was you from the way you were staring at me over there.”
“I am not Mike,” I said again. Only this time I said it in broken fragments of uncertainty.
“You are Mike. You have always been Mike, and you love me. We have been looking for you honey. Then we gave up. But, I always knew you would come back. We were so worried.”
“I- I am n-not Mi-”
“Then who are you?” She was staring ferociously into my eyes, grunting and snorting. “Who are you?” She said again. She pushed her blubbery body further onto mine, pressing me right up against the railing. “Who the shit are you, Mike?”
I panted. I attempted to breathe, but she was smothering me. Her pink flesh was encasing my body. My back was bent awkwardly, my neck stretched through open air. I remained silent. I stayed still. I waited. We waited. She blinked twice again, and let a sizeable chunk of air out of her flared nostrils. Her palm lifted to eye level and then swept itself across my face, stinging my flesh. “I am tired of your shit, Mike,” she said, gripping her bag and adjusting her underwear to its proper position. With that, she sauntered back to wherever she came from; leaving me bent over, halfway on the bridge and halfway nowhere in particular.
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