Along the river home

THE STORY BEHIND THE SOUND

At the bridge, you could go straight across the square toward home. Instead, you follow the railing down to the river. Rain has raised the water slightly, and several leaves circle slowly near the bank. The bread you have just bought is still warm inside its paper bag. Once the embankment blocks the traffic, the cars sound as if they belong to another, much more distant road.

The melody moves a little faster than your feet. Bright notes pass repeatedly above the bass, always leaving enough space to stop. Beside a smaller bridge, a bicycle leans against the rail. Its rider crouches nearby, trying to return a fallen chain to its place. Their fingers are blackened, although the bag of vegetables hanging neatly from the handlebar remains untouched.

You put the bread on a bridge post and hold up the back wheel. They turn a pedal slowly until the chain slips where it belongs. After pushing the bicycle forward to check it, they offer you a tissue from a pocket. You do not talk for long. You exchange the ordinary news of which nearby road is being repaired and which shop has not yet closed.

Farther along the river, the bread has lost some of its warmth. You tear off a piece and eat it where the bridge reflection is visible, carefully folding the tissue back inside the bag afterward. The route has become longer, but no part of it feels unnecessary. By the time you reach the square, the phrase is returning to its beginning. You decide you might take this way tomorrow too.