It was Prague where we first met. 1962. The spring I think. It must have been the spring. I can still smell the tulips in bloom as we neared the Charles Bridge. It was early, just before breakfast? I don't remember the noise of the city.
I do remember hearing the Vltava licking at her bank and caressing the broad sandstone feet of that mighty span. The gentle lapping of a street cur sipping from a rain spout, the splash of fecund wine over a bowl of currants, the symphony of a lady orchestrating cunnilingus upon an elegant stranger.
My memories of that bridge, in that morning, are so very strong. Other details of Prague escape permanence, but that bridge remains the granite foundation of my memories for you. If I had known that you would stab me in the throat under that same bridge thirty seven short years later, I may not have spent so long traveling with you. Carrying your umbrella. Making your tea. Darning your stockings.
Even now, I'm not sure I blame you. I know you had your reasons. I've haunted this bridge for the last ten years, and every November you return, your hands pressed to your head in anger, frustration, pain, denial, acceptance. You never told me your reasons, but you kissed my cheek before pushing me into the river, rouging your lips on my warm life.
Your face is usually shielded with a scarf, or the collar of your coat, stolen away from the chill of fall. If it's warm enough, I can see your face. Always older. Never crying. You're such a passionate woman, but you never cry. Not for me, not for yourself, never for what you've done.
I imagine, eventually, you'll stop coming. Stop celebrating the end of my life, the commencement of your regret. I presume you regret your actions, or you wouldn't return every November 13th to silently rail against our demons. Perhaps I presume too much.