My aged travelling companion Crisp had a thing for bridges. No matter where on our tour of Britain a bridge would pull her up. Several photos later from a variety of directions and we could be on our way. Some bridges came with their own story, and Crisp would pour over the stone or sign outlining the history it contained.
The bridge in question was one with a history of death. Many a lover had thrown themselves off the railings and into the icy waters below.
Crisp looked over the rail and down to where the water rushed as water tends to do.
“Hard to imagine isn’t it you’d feel so aggrieved by a lover to throw yourself off,” she mused, “can’t say any man ever enthused me to that extent.”
“Probably why you’ve been single all your life,” I mentioned.
“True,” she said gathering her backpack and heading off.