Page 3

Corrie

‘Shitshitshit, nonono, stop!’ I pant as I run amidst the blare of the warning ringing towards the blinking red lights on the barriers lowering in front of me.

If I can just sprint across the other side before the bridge starts opening, I’ll have precious extra minutes to…

‘Wow, watch out!’ a voice calls behind me, just as two strong arms pull me back at the very moment the barrier closes, the red lights going to the rhythm of stu-pid, stu-pid, stu-pid.

‘Shit!’ So much for elegance–I nearly get smacked on the head by the slagboom like a clueless first-timer in Amsterdam.

‘Well, it could have been a lot shittier,’ my saviour says with a chuckle.

I pull away, and he lets go. Turning, I meet two melted caramel-coloured eyes taking me in, wrinkles at their corners betraying the smile on his full lips. Five o’clock dark blond shadow dusts his cheeks and jaw, and a strand of hair has escaped his slicked-back style. Perhaps, he sprang to stop me from a concussion—which is the last thing I need.

As I take deep breaths to calm down and bring my racing pulse to its regular beat, I feel tears rising—reaching my throat, tingling my nose, and welling up in my eyes. I blink frantically, but they refuse to recede.

‘Hey…’

The voice is calm, the eyes now alarmed, and I bet he’s cursing his luck about saving the half-crazy lady, who almost got herself killed and is about to start crying.

‘Sorry.’ I wipe the dampness away with the force I would clean a dirty window.

‘Are you okay?’

No, dear Good Samaritan, I am absolutely not okay, I want to scream, but it’s not his fault that the highlight of my day got obstructed by a bridge. Or that a minor drama involving toy-hunting at home made me late—too late to change out of the sweater with the phantom oil stain that never came out, despite the detergent’s promises.

Cherry on top: my bike tire flattened out as I was just two minutes from “our” café-bar, right across the bridge, so I had to chain it to a rack before trying to cross on foot as the barriers lowered.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I reply, giving the stereotypical answer that translates to I’m not, but please leave me alone, hoping I don’t sound ungrateful.

‘Hm…’ he says, totally unconvinced, his wan smile proving exactly that.

Eager to escape his scrutiny, I avert my gaze towards the big barge loaded with sand, only a sliver of its hull above the brown canal water, a line of clothes hanging on the top deck.

Oh, to jump on it and never have to work again…

Not that I’m desperate to escape my life, despite the little hurdles that make it “interesting”, as Mum says. I love my babies and my parents and the found family I’m about to meet, and I’m so eager to see them that a concussion felt like a risk worth taking. But work… that part could use some serious improvement.

The loudspeakers blare again as people fill the pavement on each side of the canal, and there’s the clunk of metal against metal as the bridge closes, electricity wires and tram rails sliding back into place. In my defence, I’m not the only one in a hurry; people surge forward as if their life depends on it, on bikes or pushing them, or simply on foot.

‘See? It didn’t last that long,’ the man says.

‘I guess it feels eternal on occasion, depending on what awaits on the other side.’

His smile widens. ‘Important date?’

‘Absolutely. Pre-work cocktails with my friends.’

‘Why don’t I walk you there?’ he offers. ‘Just to make sure you arrive safely.’

I chuckle. ‘It’s right across the street.’

He cocks an eyebrow. ‘You’ll have to go round here or there.’ His hand moves to show that I can’t arbitrarily cross, because of the placement of railing to prevent those who did, like I would have done.

‘Fine…’ I say with the same resigned tone Otto uses whenever I ask him to tidy up his beloved spaceships. ‘Which way?’

We go right and wait at the traffic light, which of course takes too long, and we steal glances and shy smiles at each other. The light changes then. It’s pleasant to walk next to this person who seems to care about my safety. I’ve missed moments where someone else, a significant other, watches out for me, where their mere presence feels like a promise that things will be all right.

‘I believe those are your friends,’ he says, yanking me from my wishful thoughts.