Prologue - The Bridge

HIM:    
They say you can't ever go home. Which, I guess, is true. I mean, yeah. It's shit, because I'm here. But it isn't. Isn't shit, I mean. Because even though here, whether it's got four walls and a roof or not, is more home than home ever was, even when mom was alive, and even though I'm back - and I know there’s a price to pay for that, and I know it’s not paid yet - it still isn't. Isn't home, I mean. Because here may be the same, but it's different. There's been, and I grin as I think it, a lot of water under the bridge since I was here last. And just like here is the same, but it's different, so am I. I'm the same - but I'm different.

Fuck. I am so fucking different.

But evening's coming on. The shadows are starting to stretch their kinks out and get longer after a hard day scrunched up under the sun. And like I said, it was a bitch to get back here. Now I'm here I figure I might as well finish the journey. So I walk across the scrubby gravel that's still pretending to be a parking lot, even though it's still more grass than gravel just like it always was, and I step over the railing onto the path. The trees bent over the path look the same, even if I know they're really not, and the path is the same cracked mud worn by too many feet I. I walk past the old Mill, the one that's supposed to be haunted and only tourists go into and I go down the slope of grass.

And it's still there. The river's still running, the weir is still roaring and the bridge is still, well, bridging I guess. The bridge. Our Bridge. Though I guess it's a bit like home. It's still the bridge it was, but it isn't.

Because it's not Our Bridge.

It can't be, really. Because it's just me, and you're not here. There's no Our, no Us for it to be a Bridge for. And I figure I can stand there, getting all philosophical about bridges, and the gap I wish there'd never been between us. And I can wish that gap had never grown so we weren't Us any more, even if that's a wish I know I can't ever have. Or I can stop being a fucking wimp and get my fucking butt onto the fucking bridge, like I came here to do. So I do. I get my fucking butt on the fucking bridge, and I lean on the railings, where We used to lean. And you know they say how things from years past always seem smaller, not so big-deal when you come back to them? Well, maybe. But not the river. The river's not like that, and the weir under the bridge isn't like that. Because the river still rushes, like I remember it rushing, and the weir still hammers over the concrete, like I remember it hammering. And it's loud. It is so fucking loud, but not so loud I don't hear it. Don't hear you. Not so loud I don't hear you say what you always said.

'Oh my god'.

Well, no, you didn't used to say that. But you say it now. You say 'Oh, my god. Out of all the bridges on all the rivers, in all the world, you have to walk onto mine.' And I don't look up, but I know there's a smile a fucking hundred yards wide on my face, even though there shouldn't be, because it's been years, and the bridge isn't Our Bridge, and I'm the same, but I'm different and what are the odds? What are the odds that you should be here right now, this here and this now, and you should see me? I mean, like, it shouldn't be, like, possible, yeah? But what the fuck. So I grin my grin, and I keep looking at the river, and since you said it - what you always said - I figure what the fuck. And I say it too. What I always said. Even though it shouldn't matter what the fuck I say. And I say 'Hey. Say it again, Sam.'

And I know now, like I knew then, that it wasn't quite like that in the movie we saw on our first date, after we sneaked into the theatre because I didn't have any money, because I'd spent it on frozen orange juice for you. And fuck, we laughed when we saw we'd sneaked into an old black and white. But we sat, and we watched it, and it was a pretty cool movie. And when they said that thing they said, you looked at me, and you said 'Don't you ever call me that. I hate that.' But the next time I was hanging on the bridge, waiting for you, you came up and you said it, just like now. The 'Out of all the bridges' thing. And I couldn't resist. So I said it. 'Say it again, Sam.' And I expected you to throw a fit, because even your mother always called you Samantha, because she knew how loud you'd scream if she didn't. And I saw you smile then, even though you tried to look down so I couldn't see, just like your head's down now and like you're smiling now. And just like then, I have no idea now why you're standing there, why you're listening to me while I say it. But I do, and you smile, even if you say what you always said. 'Don't call me fucking Sam!'

And I grin, and the river rushes, and the weir roars - and time goes by.

HER:    
They say you can't ever go home. I guess I just made it easier, not being able to get back I mean. Because I never left in the first place. But even if you don’t leave, if you try to keep things like they always were, things happen. Things happen, and one day you realise ‘just for now’ is really ‘forever’.

I guess that’s what happened. To me, I mean. To Us. Like, maybe it was easier for me to make you leave, so I didn’t have to wait and be scared every day that that day would turn out to be the day you’d go. Like, maybe it was easier for me to hurt you, and make you leave, so you never hurt me. Not that you ever would have hurt me. But, like, maybe I figured if you left, I could tell myself it was somehow your fault.

And fuck, I’m good. I did it, right?

So I wanted to make you leave, and I did. You did. You left, and I stayed – and things changed anyway. I mean, yeah. They stayed the same. But they got all different too. Like I’m the same – but I’m different.

Fuck. I am so fucking different.

And now evening's coming on. Evening’s coming on, and I come back here like I come back here every evening, to the place I never left. Does that sound as crazy to you as it does to me? Like, coming back to somewhere I never left? And why the fuck am I talking to you anyway, like I always talk to you when I come here, when you’re not here to talk to? And why the fuck didn’t I talk to you back then? I mean, like, really talk? Like, tell you I was scared? Like, tell you why Jeff was – whatever the fuck he was, and not ever what you were. You. The thing I made go away. You, the only thing I ever wanted, and the thing I was scared to have.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck.

The shadows are starting to stretch their kinks out and get longer after a hard day scrunched up under the sun. So I know it’s time. Time to stop being a wimp, and go to the place I always go to. The place I always came to. Because when I did, you’d be there, and We’d be there. But that was then, and this is now.

And now?

Now everything’s different. Everything’s fucking different, and I’m fucking different, and nothing will ever be what it was again. But, like, even when there’s really no point, there are just things you, like, have to do, right? So I do it. I walk across the scrubby gravel that's still pretending to be a parking lot, even though it's still more grass than gravel just like it always was, and I step over the railing onto the path. The trees bent over the path look the same, even if I know they're really not, and the path is the same cracked mud worn by too many feet. I walk past the old mill, the one only the tourists go into and we never did, and I go down the slope of grass.

And it's there, like it’s there every evening. The river’s running, like it runs every evening, the weir’s roaring, like it roars every evening, and the bridge is, well, bridging I guess. The bridge. Our Bridge. And every evening I see it, and every evening I say that. That it’s the same bridge, but it isn’t Our Bridge anymore, because it’s different. Because I’m fucking different. And every evening, I’m right. Because it can’t be Our Bridge, because it's just me, and you're not here. There's no Our, no Us for it to be a Bridge for. And that’s how it is. Every fucking evening. Only – only not tonight. Not this evening. Because there’s someone. Someone on my bridge. Someone on Our Bridge – or maybe Someone on Our Bridge. Because it looks like you! It looks like you even though it’s been so long since I’ve seen you, since you were here. And it looks like you even though it can’t be you, because you ran, and you said you were never coming back, and I knew that was what I wanted you to say even if I never wanted you to say it. But it is. It’s you. It’s you, and you’re there, where you always were. And I have no fucking idea why you’re there, even though I know it doesn’t matter, because everything’s different now – because I’m different now. And I know it doesn’t matter if I leave or if I stay – if I speak or if I don’t. Because that’s how it is when – when things change. But you’re there, and even if it’s just a bridge, and not Our Bridge, and even if you’re just you and not my You – I figure, fuck it. I figure fuck it, and I can stand there, getting all philosophical about bridges, and the gap I wish there'd never been between us, or wish had never grown so we weren't Us any more, or I can stop being a fucking wimp. I can stop being a fucking wimp, and I can do what I always did, and say what I always said. Because sometimes, even if things change, they’re really the same.

So I do it. And the river’s roaring, and the weir’s hammering over the concrete, like I’ll never forget it hammering, and I fucking say it, even if I know you’re never going to hear me.

Or I almost say it. Because I say ‘Oh my god’. And I never said that. But I say it now. I say ‘Oh my god. Out of all the bridges on all the rivers, in all the world, you have to walk onto mine.'

And you don’t look up, but I can see there’s a smile hundred yards wide on your face, even though there shouldn't be, because it's been years, and the bridge isn't Our Bridge, and I'm the same, but I'm different. But even though it shouldn’t be possible, and the river’s rushing, and the weir’s hammering, and there’s no way you can hear me, you grin your grin – that grin I could never forget. You grin your grin, and you fucking do it. You say it. What you always said. And you say 'Hey. Say it again, Sam.' And I know. I know it wasn’t quite like that, in that movie we saw on our first date. We had to sneak in, because you’d spent your last dime on frozen orange juice for me. And you told me you’d always wanted to be Peter Sarstedt, and you laughed when I blushed and said I didn’t know who he was. But it wasn’t a nasty laugh, it was cute, and you blushed too. So we sneaked into the theatre and fuck, we laughed when we saw we'd sneaked into an old black and white. But we sat, and we watched it, and it was a really cool movie. And when they said that thing they said, I looked at you, and I said 'Don't you ever call me that. I hate that.' And I meant it, because I did. I really, really did. And I’d fucking scream our house down if even my mom called me Sam, because that’s not my name, and my name’s fucking Samantha. But the next time I came to the bridge, before it was really Our Bridge, because you said you’d be there, I couldn’t resist. I said it. The 'Out of all the bridges' thing. And you did it. You fucking did it. You said 'Say it again, Sam.' And I should have thrown a fit, like I did with mom, but I couldn’t help it. I looked down, so you couldn’t see, and I smiled so fucking wide my lips should have needed fucking passports, because that was Our Movie, and all of a sudden, being Sam was OK, if it meant I was Your Sam. And that was then, and this is now, and I’m different – and this shouldn’t be happening. But it is, and my head drops down so you can’t see, and I know I’m smiling just as wide all over again. And I say it, even if I don’t mean it, and it shouldn’t matter, because everything’s different, even if I can’t ever tell you how it’s different, and I say what I always said. 'Don't call me fucking Sam!' And I know, my smile’s never been wider. And I smile, and the river rushes, and the weir roars - and time goes by.