Over the Brooklyn Bridge  

It’s an odd sensation, being suspended above the river like this. The murky water is so far below it appears motionless, the cars speeding past a blur of white noise. She feels slightly off kilter, even though the pavement is firm beneath their feet. Like she could fall at any moment, yet knows she won’t. It’s not unpleasant.

Pam squints into the bright light towards the other end of the bridge, where the city looms like a photographic mural, increasingly huge with every step they take. Its sharp architectural edges seem to shimmer and melt, undulating in the blazing sun. Alone out here on this crazy hot August morning, it feels like they’re somewhere remote. Like they’re approaching a new civilization only they’ve discovered - Incan pyramids in the deepest Peruvian jungle, a palm-shaded oasis in the Sahara.

She feels like she – they - can go anywhere. She catches Jim’s hand as it swings at his side and weaves her fingers with his.

 ‘John Roebling,’ he smiles nonchalantly at her.

‘Who?’

‘The guy who designed the Brooklyn Bridge. That was his name.’

‘How’d you know that?’ she looks up at him, surprised.

‘I didn’t. I Googled it this morning before you woke up to impress you.’

‘Well, it worked. Got anything else?’

‘Sheesh. Tough audience,’ he rolls his eyes. ‘Uh, let’s see… well, it took thirteen years to build and twenty-seven workers died horrible deaths in the process.’

‘Okay, now you sound like Dwight …’

‘Nah. Dwight would be karate kicking it to test its structural integrity.’

They’d talked about doing this all summer, but somehow had never gotten around to it before. The weekends passed too quickly. Jim would usually arrive late Friday afternoon, then time would warp and it would instantly be Sunday night and they’d be saying goodbye. More than once, he’d impulsively stayed until Monday morning, sneaking out before dawn to drive back in time to be late for work. She’d barely be aware of his hands gliding over her body one last time, a final kiss, soft, careful not to wake her. By the time the alarm went off, he’d be gone and she’d have to hurry to get to class. She preferred that. There’d be no time to miss him. Sunday nights after he left were the worst. The apartment felt empty, the bed too big, TV shows not funny. She’d drink the last of the wine, wait for his call to say he’d gotten home in one piece and he loved her, and go to bed early. Shift gears.

She’d wondered how they’d translate here, but after the first couple of weekend visits, they’d worked the kinks out. Finding a balance turned out to be a lot easier when the other person realizes there’s a point where he ends and she begins.

She’d usually bring Jim to school to show him what she was working on. The first time, they’d run into a classmate with whom she’d just become friendly.

‘Seriously cute fiancé,’ the girl had remarked the following Monday morning. ‘How long has that been going on?’

Pam paused a second, not sure how to succinctly answer that question. She decided on the truth.

‘Five years,’ she said simply.

Sometimes she’d stay to work for a couple of hours while Jim explored the neighborhood. He’d bring her back random gifts, oddities and treasures he’d found, when they met up at her place later – flowers dyed an insanely artificial shade of blue from the Korean market where she stopped every day on her way home from school; a bag of rich gooey cookies called PB Orgasms he’d spotted at a nearby bakery.

‘Didn’t you already give me one of those this morning?’ she’d teased.

‘Two, actually,’ he’d simultaneously blushed and looked smug. ‘I mean, if I were keeping track….’

‘But those weren’t peanut butter flavored,’ she’d laughed, biting into a cookie.

‘Yeah, I’m working on that.’

He’d once brought her a beautiful tiny elephant carved from rose quartz that he’d discovered in an artsy shop he’d stumbled upon around the corner from Pratt.

‘According to the woman behind the counter, elephants are good luck,’ he’d explained. ‘And I’d listen to her – she was totally covered in some kind of New Age tattoos in Sanskrit or something. So, with your final project coming up, I thought…’

She’d kissed him before he could finish. Just for the fact that he’d thought.

They’d take the subway into Manhattan and go to galleries in Chelsea or uptown to the museums. They’d eat cheap Indian food in the East Village, throw together makeshift picnics in Prospect Park, buy strawberries and corn and tomatoes at the Greenmarket and make dinner in her miniscule kitchenette with its two-burner cooktop. Last weekend, they’d gone to an animation film festival down the street at The Brooklyn Academy of Music. She was still a bit amazed that convincing him to do these things with her required no arm twisting, no negotiation, no threats. Even after a year, she sometimes felt like she was adjusting to customs on an alien planet.

There were several weekends, however, when they never left her one room sublet. When their most ambitious expedition would be a late afternoon beer run to the bodega on the corner or to pick up bagels on Sunday morning. They’d crank the window air conditioner as high as it would go, dispense with most - and frequently all - clothing, forget any pretense of plans. They’d make the long week they’d spent apart go away, gird themselves for the coming one.

Now they’re in the home stretch - only three weeks left and next weekend she’s taking the bus to Scranton for Jim’s niece’s birthday party. It’s kind of a big deal – the first Halpert family event since they’ve been engaged. He keeps telling her it’s okay if she’s too busy with school to come, but he’s a lousy liar. It’s clear her being there means a lot to him, and it means a lot to her that it means a lot to him. That’s a whole lot of a lot and of course she’s going.

After that, she’ll be holed up at the graphics lab and in studio getting ready for her final reviews, tiny pink elephant tucked in her pocket. They’ve already agreed he’ll stay away that weekend, but take a day off later in the week to help her move. Truth be told, she’s as happy as he is about her imminent return to Scranton.

She’s loved being here; it has been eye and soul - not to mention, wallet – opening. But now she needs to figure out how it fits into the rest of her life. At this point, Jim is her only given. Plus she (they) have a wedding to plan. All she knows so far is that it’s going to be small and simple; this time around, she doesn’t daydream about flower arrangements and monogrammed cocktail napkins; she daydreams about him. She’s ready to go home. To his home, which became their home shortly before she left for New York.

So, here they are, walking across this bridge on the hottest Sunday of a summer of hot Sundays. It’s pretty damn magnificent.