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A Solstice Story

It is the longest night of the year, the snow already six inches deep, and Frank stares down at the black water rushing under the Seventh Street Bridge. Just one step and it will all be over. To fight off the wind, he pulls his hat lower on his head and rearranges his scarf, and laughs a little at the gesture. A bit of gallows humor. Once he hits the water, he’ll never be warm again.


No one is out tonight, and he hasn’t seen a car pass by in nearly an hour. Most people stay snug in their houses, counting the days down to Christmas. He thought he would be one of those folks, but that was before Delia left.


“I’m sorry, Frank, but I don’t love you anymore,” she said, bags and boxes stacked up neatly at the door as he walked in after work. Had that only been a week ago? He still carries the engagement ring in his pants pocket. He should leave it on the ledge for someone to find. Maybe they could use it.


“What do you mean?” he’d asked. It was as if she had been speaking some other language, something he could translate but still turned out to be gibberish. “I thought we were happy?”


“Oh Frank. I’m sure you were happy. But I need more.”


“I can change,” he said, his desperation palpable, twisting around his body like a python. How could this be happening?


Delia smiled her Mona-Lisa smile at him, but her eyes were hard. “I can’t.”


And with that she started bringing her things down to her car. Frank had thought about offering to help her, but he was too busy trying not to cry.


Frank breathes in the cold air, burning his lungs. Just a little longer, he thinks, staring up at the sky. Just a little more time to screw up his courage. The snow falls softly, and if he weren’t in such a state, he’d almost appreciate it.


A slow car with its blinkers on and windshield wipers moving furiously pulls over. So deep in thought is Frank he almost fails to notice the car’s approach. A slight woman dressed head to foot in faux fur steps out of the car, walks to where he’s situated, and climbs up on the beam next to him. She looks young—young and pretty, with short blond hair poking out of her cap.


“Hey!” he yells, “what are you doing? Get down from there!”


She assesses him a moment, with eyes somewhere between blue and gray, but ignores his order.


He wants to tug on her coat to drag her down but he’s afraid to startle her. “Seriously, get down. It’s not safe.”


“I know what I’m doing, Mister. Same as you.”


Why does she have to pick tonight? Why right next to him? There’s a whole quarter mile of bridge she could choose from. He thinks about moving several guardrails down and leaving her to it. But he can’t live with himself if he does nothing—not that it would be long he’d have to live. Just because he’s lost all hope for himself doesn’t mean he can’t help a fellow soul.


Why are you planning on jumping?” he asks. He tries to sound sympathetic, but it comes across as too abrupt. Almost rude.


“What’s it to you?” she asks, squinting her eyes as much as a reaction from the cold as consideration of his question.


“Just making conversation.”


She laughs, a brittle sound like the wind. “Short version? Not to be overly-dramatic, but I don’t have anything to live for. I fucked up for the last time and my family can’t forgive me.”


He tenses as she lifts one foot up, her red pump dangling.


“Wait.”


She looks at him and sets down her foot.


“How did you fuck up?”


“That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?”


Does he really want to know what she did? Or is he just stalling for her sake? For both of their sakes?


“The secret will die with me. But tell me or don’t, it’s up to you.”


“What’s your name?” she asks.