“Would you like more coffee?”
The server in the orange apron lowered the pot, but Cath muttered, “No, thank you.”
Her voice trembled, and the server busied herself with the next table.
Outside the window, fog enveloped Waterloo Bridge. The morning was quiet, and Cath relaxed in the warmth of the café, where she had found a seat with a river view. The Thames, too, was sinking into the white mist. Cath had come here from the Tube station, navigating the empty streets.
The tourists had not yet woken up, and the office workers were already in their open spaces and creative-flow stations. Yesterday Cath had led an onboarding session in one of those bright places, surrounded by carefree new employees, chatting away like a flock of birds.
Cath felt their glances but said nothing until one of the girls raised her hand.
“Excuse my interest,” she said, blushing, “but aren’t you Catherine Lester?”
Cath smiled.
“You’re probably wondering why a prima ballerina works in HR.”
The girl looked embarrassed, and Cath allowed herself another smile. Her therapist insisted on ten a day, and she usually managed five.
“I had an injury that prevented me from dancing,” Cath explained. “I’ve always liked working with people, so HR seemed a natural choice. If there are no more questions, my colleague Viv will take over.”
Later, Viv commented on Cath’s approach to the group.
“Seems like you’re processing your tragedy,” she said. “Still, please don’t hesitate to ask for help if you need it.”
Cath, who wanted to rip off and eat Vivian’s head, forced another of her smiles. She had spent the previous evening in a drunken stupor, clutching a bottle of whiskey and the last letter from Mark, delivered over a year ago. Her husband had loved old-fashioned paper and military envelopes.
“We’re almost done here and coming back in a month,” he had written. “Till we meet again, my love, on Waterloo Bridge.”
They both loved the classic movie, and now, finishing her coffee, Cath fidgeted with the gold links of the bracelet Mark had given her for their first and last wedding anniversary.
Their second would have been today, and that morning Cath had found an army postcard in the letterbox, which she religiously checked every morning.
“Meet me on Waterloo Bridge,” the handwriting of her husband, who was dead for over a year remained neat.
Cath could not remember whether she had taken her pills yesterday.
“Probably not,” she muttered, putting on her coat. “I was drinking. And today?”
She frowned, but time slipped from her hands like the postcard she could no longer find. Sinking into the fog, Cath made her way to the bridge, climbing to the top.
“I knew you’d come,” Mark’s whisper was soft, inviting. “I’m waiting for you.”
One graceful movement took her to the railing. His voice floated away like water under the bridge. Reaching for it, Cath stepped down into the icy embrace of the river.
Bio:
Nelly Shulman has authored three collections of short stories. Her work has appeared in numerous literary magazines. www.nellyshulman.blog