Lovelock
It’s always amazed me how the park could be so solitary, while just a few feet away is the most popular hangout spot in the city. Whenever I go to the park, it’s isolated, and it smells fresh. At night, the lamps are just bright enough so that you can see the path, but dim enough that you can easily lose yourself in the darkness. To put in a word, it’s peaceful.
The bridge nearby is, generally, anything but peaceful. It reeks of stagnant lake water, with a sickly sweet undertone of discarded cigarette buds. On a normal summer night, it’s filled with obnoxious teenagers sucking at each other’s faces and telling each other how they’ll love each other until the end of time. There’s a ubiquitous din of people chatting along the riverside pathways, just loud enough to be annoying without actually being intelligible.
When I get to the bridge, it’s early enough that no one else has arrived yet. There’s a paranoid sign blocking off the bridge exclaiming Be careful! Once in one hundred years the melting snow causes the water to rise high enough to almost touch the bridge! No one actually pays attention to the sign, but at least it stops anyone from trying to sue the city if they slip and fall to their deaths.
I slip easily past the warning and lean against the side of the bridge, staring out at the waters. The river is flowing faster than I expected, yet somehow it still manages to look murky and brown. Out here in the open, the breeze is stronger, but it’s the warmest it’s felt all year, and it feels good as it brushes my hair out of my face. It’s quieter here than I ever thought possible, and lose myself in my thoughts.
I don’t come back to the world until I hear the chain at the edge of the bridge move, and I turn to see Rayan. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt that’s just slightly too big on him and a narrow black tie underneath a faded red hoodie.
I smile at him, tug at his tie, and bring my lips up to his, pressing against him only for a second. He seems surprised that I’ve initiated any form of intimacy.
“If I had known this was a black-tie event I would have put on my good hoodie,” I laugh.
He smiles. “I just got off work.” He hangs the hoodie over the side of the bridge and pulls his shirt off without bothering to unbutton it. His undershirt starts to come with it, revealing the pale skin beneath, but he quickly brushes it back down. I bring my hand up to my face to hide my smirk.
“Either way, you look good.”
He pats down stray strands of fiery hair before joining me at the edge of the bridge. We spend a good half hour talking about nothing, just being together like there’s no other care in the world. During a momentary lull, I notice the backpack setting down near his feet.
When I mention it, he smiles, leans down, and unzips the pocket. “You ever heard why they call this Lovelock bridge?” I shake my head. “Urban legend has it that when two people really love each other, they can come here and put a padlock on the side of the bridge. If they do, they’re going to have a long, happy relationship with each other.”
I look down at the bottom of the bridge and notice it’s dripping with rusted locks. Some of them look like they’ve been here for years. The thought of anyone attaching a lock to a bridge to signify their love is so overtly romantic it makes me sick. I really hope this isn’t what Rayan has in mind.
When I look back at him, he has a large pair of bolt cutters in his hands; I can’t help but laugh.
“I thought you might enjoy it.”
He glances around to make sure no one is watching, then gets down as low as he can and reaches the bolt towards one of the locks. With a bit of fidgeting, he snaps the shackle and the locks falls into the water with a satisfying pa-lunk! We both laugh.
“You know, statistics show that half of all marriages end in divorce,” I tell him. “We’d better help along fate and break apart some of these soulmates.”
He smiles and reaches the bolt cutters down to another lock. He jabs and jabs, but can’t catch anything. Lying flat on the bridge and squirming like this, he looks like a fish desperately gasping for breath.
“Give me those,” I say and yank the handles out of his hands.
I scan the metal canopy for a prime victim. One lock in particular catches my eye: I can barely make out the phrase RJ+LS etched into the side in Rashelle’s handwriting. LS was Laura, Shelle’s last girlfriend. They broke up two months ago, and Shelle was devastated. Snap. Plunk! That one’s for you, Shelle.
Rayan and I take turns crushing the hopes and dreams of dozens of hopeless romantics. By the time we’re done, there’s a noticeable hole in the Lovelocks, and the sun is just starting to dip down below the horizon. The wind is growing colder, and I huddle next to Rayan. He wraps his arm around me.
His other arms returns the bolt cutters to the bag. “Hungry?” I nod, and he pulls out a sandwich and hands to me. I unwrap it; it’s peanutbutter and jelly, our sandwich. I smile at the thought of any couple laying special claim to a certain kind of sandwich. I look up at him as I take a bite, and I can tell he’s thinking of the same moment that I am. The first time we ever talked with each other. It seems like forever ago.
In a minute, we have a quaint meal of sandwiches, chips, carrots, and oranges laid out in front of us. Rayan hands me a bottle of water. When we finish, he packs everything up, then makes a show of pulling a large piece of apple pie from his bag.
“Rayan, did you cook this?” I ask. I know he didn’t, but it doesn’t hurt to play along. “You shouldn’t have! I didn’t know you could cook!”
He shrugs. “Well, someone at Pick ‘n Save can, at least.” He digs through his backpack a bit before turning back to me. “Whoops. Only one fork.”
He’s still apologizing and making excuses when I take the fork from him, dig it into the pie, and shove it into his mouth. He shuts up instantly and lets out an involuntary moan of delight. I break a piece off for myself.
“How is it?” he asks before stealing the fork from me and attacking the pie.
“It’s the best pie I’ve ever had,” I tell him. The only contest it has is the sugar-free pie my grandmother makes for my diabetic grandfather every Thanksgiving, but there’s no point in telling him that.
When we’ve devoured the pie, he throws the container in the trash and pulls me to my feet. We stroll around the lake for awhile, ending our excursion at the small amphitheater the city built into the hill. There’s a scarcely attended play just about to start, and Rayan tugs me to a seat near the edge. The play is horribly acted and horribly written by some local retired florist, some impractical love story about a woman and a flower delivery man, but Rayan and I spend the time whispering snide comments about it to each other, so the experience is at least bearable. As soon as it’s over, we bolt and head back to his car. He wraps his arm around my shoulder, and I lean my head against him. His chest is warm against the cool night air. He leads me to his car.
When he pulls up to my house, my grandparents are both asleep already. I let him kiss me before I rush out the door, slip into the dark house and watch him drive away.
