Waiting...

At the brink of a wide concrete bridge pier high above the river, David Bean squatted, his arms around his knees and boot soles half over the edge. Glass tower buildings on either side reflected the fading red sun behind his back. The dark green river lay flat and calm. Traffic pinged across the bridge. A siren wailed.

A slight warm breeze shifted his black hair and the hair tickled his nose. He ignored the itch, rocking carefully back and forth on the balls of his feet, concentrating on how it would unfold, if, and when, he made the move.

All I have to do is close my eyes and lean forward, he thought. He had played it over and over in his mind until he had mapped the entire fall. He just couldn't create the impact; couldn't create the end. Not yet.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

The voice had come from up on the pedestrian walk. David shook his head, backed away from the pier edge, sat and straightened his legs. Looking up, he saw a fat man lean over the railing.

"Are you going to jump?" the man said.

David rubbed his legs, then pulled a cigarette pack from his shirt pocket, lit one and inhaled. "It's amazing. People will find you no matter where you go." He stared up at the intruder as he exhaled smoke.

The fat man frowned and tugged at his right ear. "I'm not here looking for anybody."

"Maybe you're a cop trying to use reverse psychology on me," David said. "I've seen it in a million television shows."

"Do I look like a cop?"

"Some cops try hard not to look like cops."

"I was thinking about jumping."

David blew smoke toward him. "Find another pier."

"Don't want to," the fat man said. A belching diesel truck vibrated the railing. "I picked this one."

"I might have been gone if you didn't interrupt me," David said.

The fat man wiped at his face. "Then you are going to jump. I figured so." He glanced over his shoulder. "It looks like about forty-five minutes until dark. Could I have one of those cigarettes?"

David shrugged. "I'm not bringing it up there."

The fat man eased over the railing. A horn blew and someone yelled, apparently startling him. "Idiots," he said. His shaking legs made his pants ripple like a flag. When he reached solid footing on the pier, he released the bottom rung of the railing, used his feet to clear a space of dirt and small concrete chips, and sat down. "My name is Carl Mesher."

David smiled as he groped for a cigarette. Carl's burgundy dress pants were too short. Waiting for the flood pants, he thought. Carl's yellow shirt had front pockets stretching down to his waist. His short, wheat stalk hair had been forced up and back by some kind of grease. He wore black wing-tip shoes. This man does not attract women, David thought.

After lighting a cigarette, Carl frowned. "You look pretty happy for a guy about to jump."

"I'll bet you're one of those studs who hang around the dance clubs and get all the women." He offered his hand. "I'm David."

Carl's hand felt hot and wet. The fat man hissed smoke as sweat trickled down the side of his face. "Was that an insult?"

David pulled his hand away, took one more drag, and flipped his cigarette so the wind blew it back under the bridge. "I didn't mean anything."

"I know my pants are short," Carl said. "I just didn't figure it mattered. Besides, you have holes in your jeans and a big rip in the back of your shirt."

"These are my work clothes," David said. "I didn't go home tonight." He stared up river, and when he glanced back at Carl, the man looked past him toward the city.

"You know, I wish I could paint," Carl said. "I would have loved to paint the way the sun reflects in all those windows. It would make a great oil painting."

David glanced at the flat green water. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Carl flipped his cigarette and they watched it fall.

"I'm dying."