The Bridge

Each time they walked over the bridge, she'd toss a stone into the brook. It had become one of their things...the things couples do. On weekends they would take long walks; they'd talk about anything, everything, and all the while they'd each be looking for a stone. It was her choice, of course, but they'd both look. She'd hold the stone in her hand until they got to the bridge. They'd pause on the bridge, look down at the chuckling brook below, then she'd toss the stone.

Four, five, six years they'd taken those walks. He'd teased her that she'd eventually dam up the brook with all those small stones. Even during the bad times, they still took their walks. He had an affair, she had an affair, but they continued to walk together. Then she met somebody else; it was serious this time. She wouldn't feel right about taking those walks. He understood, didn't he?

He went for the walk alone. As he walked, he looked for a stone. He found one, picked it up in a bloody hand. He paused on the bridge, looked down into the chuckling brook below, then tossed the stone. A moment later, he tossed the knife.