Under the Bridge
The bridge was rusty, the paint peeling off the underside. Joseph sat with his back to it, watching the girl nervously. She had tears streaming down her face and she was trying frantically to brush them away. Water was dripping onto her shoulders, not from her face, but her hair which was spread out over her shoulders as it dried.
Above them they could hear the thump, thump, as a ball was kicked against the edge of the bridge, and a parent’s shrill voice calling a child back.
‘Your leg.’ She whispered eventually.
He followed her gaze to the blood seeping out of a wound on his leg.
She looked down again, not wanting to meet his eye.
The boy leaned back against the support, waiting. The water rushed by, and he watched, wondering, idly, what if it were to go wrong, if it were to do something that they didn’t expect, just once. Where would they be then?
He looked back at the girl who was now rootling through her bag.
‘There you go,’ she said as she pushed into his hands a white handkerchief. ‘That should do the trick.’