A Meeting on the Bridge

A very short story that takes place in Amsterdam

Jenna woke up that morning with a feeling of dread. Vivid scenes from a reoccurring dream still swirled around her, and the early morning sky outside her window looked cold and dreary. Reaching for her diary, she began writing down everything she could remember about the dream. As usual, it had to do with a building she was trying to find her way through. Unfortunately, the floors and doors kept changing, and she eventually became lost, unable to find the exit.

Jenna put the diary back on the nightstand, telling herself she would tease out the dream’s meaning later. Even though she seldom did analyze her dreams, it comforted her to know that she had documented them in her diary. Swinging her legs to the floor, she walked to the bathroom, where a hot, steamy shower started to lighten her mood.

I need some exercise, she thought, so she dressed quickly and headed for the elevator.

Jenna’s hotel was in the center of Amsterdam. She had only arrived in the city two days before and was not yet familiar with all of its neighborhoods. Deciding to just walk and see where her feet would take her, she headed east on Kerkstraat. Fog hung thick and low on the streets, making it hard to see more than a few feet in front of her. Because it was so early in the morning, the streets were almost empty. Within an hour, Jenna had already discovered, they would be swarming with cyclists on their way to work.

Jenna soon came to the Magere Brug (skinny bridge) that crosses the Amstel River. Illuminated by multiple lights shining on the water, the bridge drew her forward just as the fog was beginning to lift. As she began to cross the river, she became aware that someone was walking toward her from the opposite direction. By the slow and painful way in which the figure moved, each step punctuated by the click of a cane, Jenna had the impression that the man was elderly. Lost in her own thoughts, she started to walk past him.

“Hello, Jenna.”

The low, deep voice jerked her into the present, and she swung around to face the man. Jenna was surprised to see that he was not much older than she. Deep lines etched his cheeks, and his dark eyes were hooded by pain. Feelings of loss and confusion, so familiar from her dreams, flooded over her when she realized that she knew him.

“I didn’t expect you to remember me!” she blurted out.

Recoiling almost as though he had been shot, the man took a step backward.

“I’m so sorry,” Jenna said. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It doesn’t matter.”

The man reached up with his left hand, almost as though he meant to touch her cheek. Instead, his hand stopped in mid-air and dropped to his side. With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he turned around and started to walk away.

“Don’t, don’t go yet Michael.”

He stopped and faced her again.

“How…” she hesitated. “How did you get out of Afghanistan?”

“I don’t know exactly. After the bomb blew up, all I remember is pain and darkness. During rare moments of consciousness, I remember the face of an angel—your face—looking down at me, trying to ease my pain. And then all was darkness again.”

“I did the best I could to stabilize you. But after a few days you were gone, and so many others needed my help.”

“The Irish Peacekeepers sent me back to Ireland. But after this,” sweeping his hand toward his legs, “Ireland no longer felt like home. A Dutch friend invited me to join her here, and so I came.”

Jenna nodded. She, too, had been unable to return home and now moved restlessly from one place to another. Seeing Michael again brought back memories she had long tried to ignore.

“Michael, I can’t...”

They looked into each other’s eyes for one long moment. And then they turned around without saying another word and continued their opposite paths across the bridge just as the fog was beginning to descend again.