A man walks across a bridge in torrential rain in Madison County. Instead of hurrying, or bowing his head against the driving downpour, he walks at a normal pace, face turned ever so slightly towards the sky. He appears to have nowhere important to be and no time to be there. His wallet is getting soaked in his back pocket, the crumpled bills inside getting completely saturated. His license, reading the name ROBERT KINCAID, is expired. Robert is not a man in a hurry.
He approaches another bridge and walks across it. After crossing two more bridges he arrives at his destination: a bar with a heavy wooden door and shabby exterior. The bar is called Bridge Palace. He enters.
"A jack and coke, please," says Robert as he sits his tired body down on a weathered stool.
The barkeep slides his drink down the counter without a word. As Robert's eyes adjust to the dim light, he notices the peeling walls are covered in framed pictures. The London, the Golden Gate, the Tower, the Brookyn, the Sydney Harbor. This confuses Robert. He can't understand why they picked so many random paintings.
He hears chuckling in the corner to his right and turns to see four people, three men and one woman, playing bridge. He never learned how to play bridge, but his grandmother begged to teach him. "Let me teach you bridge" were, in fact, her last words. Robert shudders from the rain still clutching at his shoulders.
"Another," says Robert to the barkeep.
"Rough day?" responds the man as he mixes Robert's jack and coke.
Robert usually hated small talk, but he decided now was a time to be honest. "My great love decided not to run away with me. Francesca Johnson, the one that got away." He raises his glass in a one sided cheers.
The bartender sighs. "Francesca Johnson? Married Francesca Johnson?"
"The very same."
"Her grandfather built all the bridges in this town. It was his life's work."
"A very grand life to live."
"Indeed. It was 69 bridges."
"God damn, that's a shit ton of bridges," Robert thought to himself.
Robert paid and left the bar. As he walked across the bridge to his left, and then turned right and walked across another bridge, and then another, he pondered his life. "I can never seem to get from one place to another," he thought as he walked across another bridge. "I can't seem to bridge the gap between the life I want and the life I have."
Bridge the gap… bridge… perhaps life was one big bridge. The life he led was on one side and the life he wanted was on another.
"I… will build that mother fucking bridge."
Robert walks over 38 more bridges, reaches his hotel, and falls asleep.