Edges Gilded In Gold

I'd like you to think that I'm confident.

My makeup picture-perfect.

Eyebrows twins, not sisters

Hairstyle following the latest trend.

But if you were to really know me. You'd know that I keep my hair at this length because I like how, every now and then, it lightly brushes my neck. Like a comfort blanket I can keep with me always.

You'd know that I rest my elbow at every bar, lean my head on my hand. Not to look sultry or confident. But because I can't stand being looked at from both sides.

I've never liked my skin. Hence the makeup.

I wear strappy tops because the strapless ones don't feel safe to me. Like I could lose everything at any moment.

I've been told I can come across as cold. I can assure you it's not out of overconfidence. It's

simply because I've let too many people light the fire within me, using tossed fuel and cheap cigarettes. That now I'll only warm up if you can ignite me with dynamite.

Gazing out the window, my eyes land on the bridge.

Like they always do.

It's always felt more cathedral than bridge to me. What with its discoloured statues and ornate carvings.

Along the sides, they cast faux garland, chiselled from bare stone. With edges gilded in gold, too far away and too precariously placed for any passer-by to question the purity of. Marking the centre of the bridge, I gaze longingly at the two eagles.

Wings outstretched, as if they're stopping momentarily.

To gain a valiant soldier waiting by their side, before taking off again.

I wish I was the eagle.

Ready at a moment's notice.

Wings fully opened, the wind already calling me upwards.

But I'm afraid I'll forever be the soldier.

Waiting for a freeride through my every war.

Never quite brave enough to take flight on my own wings.

It's why this pub is the only one I've stuck to. The place I keep coming back to. Looking out at the eagles. Hoping one day I'll be out there and looking in. Seeing a different lost soul within.

'Same again?' The barman pulls me out of my reverie.

'Uh.. yeah. Thanks.'

Same again. Always the same.

A new guy saddles up on the stool next to me. Asks for a whisky and follows my gaze out the window.

'Cool bridge.'

'Yeah. It's pretty great.'

'You been here before?' New Guy asks me.

I turn in my stool to face him. Typical newbie. Thinks he's got the full package. The messy hair that took hours to craft, the leather jacket slung over his shoulder. The brick of a ring on his right hand, condensation from his whisky glass dripping off it. As if the lion's face were sweating.

'Why do you ask?'

He swirls the whisky in his glass and takes a swig. Then lets his eyes rest on me for a moment, before looking out at the bridge again.

'The way you talked about the bridge. It was like you two were old friends.'

He glances back at me to gauge my reaction.

I'm used to this, though.

So, I give nothing away.

'We've met. In passing.' I take a sip of my GnT, never taking my eyes off him.

He makes a noise that sounds like the cousin of amusement.

'You don't give much away, do you?'

'Do I have to?' I look back at the bridge.

A sleek black crow has found its perch on one soldier's helmet. It preens its feathers as it takes in its surroundings. Pausing on its journey to somewhere else.

'Fair point.'

We sit in a not-too-uncomfortable silence, whilst the late-night murmurings of the other pub dwellers step up to fill the air.

'Question.' He suddenly asks.

My eyes flicker over his face. Scanning for his motives. Seeing only ego with a hint of drunkenness, I play along.

'Shoot.'

'Why do you come here?' He nods his head in a way that encompasses the pub as a whole.

I don't need to ask what he means by that.

Taking a look around, I take in the sticky red carpet that feels like it's trying to steal your heels when you walk on it. The grubby black tables, more drink rings than wood at this point, with who knows how many chewed-up pieces of gum shoved up underneath. The smoky whips coming in through the far window, where the smokers lean in to carry on their chats with friends inside.

'What do you mean?' I ask.

He splutters on his whisky and holds it at arm's length as he composes himself.

'Sorry, I didn't realise you were blind.'

'Only to drunken men.' I reply, gazing back out to the bridge.

The crow has moved on now.

Lucky bird.

I'd kill to have wings. That would take me anywhere, at a moment's notice.

'You seem like you come here, what, seven nights a week? No doubt you sit in the same seat, order the same shitty drink –

I glance back and cock an eyebrow at him.

'Come on, G’n’T? What are you, a middle-aged white lady, Karen?

I take an extra-long sip, not breaking eye contact.

'And how would you know whether I come here every night, order the same "shitty" drink and sit in the same place, oh "wise old man of seventy who's had a hard life down the mines" whisky drinker.'

'Do I have a name too?' He asks, swirling the last dregs in his glass. 'Karen.'

'Billy.'

'Ah, a classic. I'm honoured.'

He raises his glass in mock cheers. I raise my now watered-down G’n’T in salute.

He throws back the last of his drink, wiping his mouth after.

'Happy to oblige.'

'So, come on. What's the deal? Why would a twenty-something woman like you spend her evenings in a shithole like this.'

The bartender pretends to not hear us as he clears away some glasses by our seats.

'The bridge.' I admit.

'Aha! I knew there was something between you two.'

He starts sliding his empty glass between his hands.

He follows my gaze back out, and we both rest our eyes on the gilded bridge. The setting sun reflecting off the eagles like a beacon.

'What did it do? Cheat on you with a traffic light or something?'

I fight the urge to look back at him in disgust. Instead, I keep my eyes fixed on the stone. Solid and unwavering.

'Oh, wait, did it tell you you were the only one allowed to walk all over it? And then you saw someone else on it? The nerve of that bridge!'

I can't tell if the whisky's gone to his head or if this is ‘New Guy's’ standard operating level, so I just let him have his moment.

After his chuckling dies down, my answer slips out before I realise I've said it.

'Sorry? What did you say?'

I look side-eyed at him.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. 'I swear, I'm not just being an ass. I couldn't hear you over the dimwits in the corner.' He indicates the smoker corner, and I give him the benefit of the doubt.

'I said, it's because I like to see the bridge from this angle.'

'Why?'

'I want to see the details. The stone. The gilding. The carvings. All of it.'

'Call me a weirdo, but if you want to see it so badly, surely actually standing on the bridge would mean you could see it better.'

'I like seeing it from this angle.'

'But why?'

I sigh and turn to him. All sense of bravado and ego seems to have run from his face. And all that's left is genuine confusion and intrigue.

'If I were to stand on the bridge, then yes, I could get a closer look at all the little details. But sitting here.' I sweep my hand across the smoke-heady, alcohol drenched room.

'I get to see what the bridge sees. What it watches day after day. Night after night. I want to be like that bridge. Able to stand next to shit and still look golden. To see the dirt, the hell, the pits of real life. And still look graceful, stoic. If I were to stand on the bridge, I'd miss all that. Yes, I'd see the beauty up close. But I want to see how the bridge sees. And hell, I want to fly away like those eagles can. Leave the shit behind when it gets too much to look at.'

He's silent for a while.

I don't know if I've scared him off or if the whisky's just done its job.

'But they don't leave.'

I meet his gaze. He looks back out to the bridge, and this time, I follow his lead.

'The eagles. They never leave.'

'Yeah. 'Cause they're stone.' I explain slowly. The alcohol's clearly gone to his head.

'Oh wow. Gee, thanks Karen. I didn't realise stone couldn't fly.'

A laugh fights its way out of me, and I can't help but release it.

He looks back at me in surprise. Up to this point, I've been as stone-faced as the soldiers.

'No, I mean. The eagles don't leave. They see the same shit. Night after night. Drunks, vomiters, druggies, smokers – the list goes on. But they don't leave. They know they can –

He sees my raised eyebrow.

'Hypothetically. Metaphorically. Whatever you want to call it. Hey, you're the one who's besties with a bridge. Let me have my analogy.' He raises his own eyebrow in a challenge.

I concede and let him continue.

'The eagles – and the soldiers. They see the same mess every night. But they don't leave.

They could, but they don't.'

'So? What's your point, Einstein?

'You think you want to be the eagle. Who can take flight, escape, at a moment's notice. But the eagle never does. It chooses to stay. You keep coming here hoping the bridge will teach you how to leave. Show you its golden escape route. To rise above the shit and look gilded in the process. But the eagles don't fly away. You want to learn how to escape so bad. But they never have. They stay.'

'They stay.' I repeat.

'Same again?' Asks the bartender.

‘New Guy’ looks at me.

'Actually, could I have a whisky, please? And Billy here will have a G’n’T thanks.'

The bartender shrugs and turns away to make our drinks.

'You staying then?' He asks me.

'Yeah. I think I'll hang around this shit a little longer.'