Brokeback Bridge
He did ask her, once, what she wished for; but it was only the once. That was, it turned out, the only opportunity, the only chance, that he needed.
It wasn't that her wish was simple, easy to fulfill, merely that it came at exactly the right time, and he knew, after a moment's thought, precisely how to handle it. There was a pause, after he asked her, and a slightly nervous laugh, one that she often gave vent to when put on the spot. He preferred her more genuine laughs, and avoided asking her direct questions when he could; but there was a chasm in her eyes right then that he needed to fill, and he didn't know how. So he asked, and after a moment, he got his answer.
"When I was a child," she said, swallowing hard— everything seemed to come hard to her these days— and letting her eyes drift towards the window, "there was a river near our home— perhaps more of a creek. We would bathe in it every so often, or lean over the bridge and look into the waters, throw pennies in to wish upon. Brokeback Bridge, it was, over Brokeback Creek. It was my favourite spot in the world— keeping in mind that at seven or eight years old I hadn't done much traveling." The nervous laugh again, her eyes darting back to his to see if he was still listening; he smiled patiently, encouraging her to go on. Her need for reassurance touched him, especially in light of the fact that he couldn't have torn his eyes from her if he wanted to. "I always wanted to be proposed to on that bridge, you see— I admit I was a romantic, even as a little girl."
"So little girls should be," he said softly, nodding a bit. He watched her avidly, one finger rubbing across his lips, dry and chapped from the time spent out in the sun with the children.
"That was my greatest wish, until we moved away when I was thirteen. And of course, my husband never even knew of the bridge; never knew of my wish going unfulfilled. That is what I would wish, James, if I had anything in the world. To go back again and—" Her eyes had drifted away from his, away from the window; she now looked at the carpet underneath her feet, her voice faraway and her eyelids fluttering nearly shut as though she were trying desperately to see something that wouldn't come fully into focus. A breathy sigh escaped her and she turned her eyes to his face, determinedly. "Its silly of me, I realize that."
He shook his head. "No," he contradicted. "Wishes are meant to seem impossible— that's why its such a miracle when they do come true."
She managed a half-smile at him. "You're an incurable optimist, James."
"With good reason," he responded, letting his own grin draw a wider smile from her. "I shall need you to close your eyes, if you don't mind."
The months they'd spent together, as friends and companions, had taught her to do as he asked when his voice took on that contemplative tone; though she doubted that even he would be able to fulfill her wish, she complied, her eyes sliding shut with a sigh of almost relief. She'd learnt to trust him, to let her fledgling imagination rest in his capable hands, let him give meaning to her thoughts and spin her wordless dreams into visions.
His voice, low and thoughtful, measured and soft, took her to a world she'd not been in for many years. There was the river, just in front of her, with young women perched on its banks with lacy parasols extended over their heads, young men in swimming costume splashing in the shallows, and the ancient stone arch of the bridge stretched across the generous span of water. She walked carefully up the bridge, placing her feet just so, watched the crooked cobblestones that she hadn't seen in so long. All so familiar; the feel of the thick stone parapet that lined the bridge on either side, cold and slightly dusty under her hands, the rockwork holding the heat of the sun only superficially, the habitual chill of established stone seeping up from its core; the view down the river, straight to the horizon, where a watery sun was sinking beneath the edge of the earth; the dim green glimmer of the river when she looked over the edge of the parapet, the water nearly opaque, the last gleams of sunlight lacing through it in delicate gold workings. A voice in her ear— her breath caught and her eyelashes fluttered.
"Keep your eyes closed," he said softly, and once again she obeyed.
Further on, his voice spun the world around her, and while the shouts and laughter of the bathing party diminished from her hearing, she now became aware of soft footsteps that advanced to her side. Turning her head, she saw him.
It wasn't her husband, of course; strangely enough, he had no place in this world that Mr. Barrie imagined for her. It was a man she hadn't seen before, though his face was familiar in the same way that dreams get repeated sometimes as we sleep; she thought if she ran her fingers down the planes of his cheeks, he could disappear suddenly and yet she could complete the outline of his features down to his jaw, a loop around to the curve of his ear, up again to run through his hair. She reached out, and so deep was the spell of Mr. Barrie's voice that she felt him; felt the features as she had always imagined, felt the bone beneath the skin, brushed along his earlobe and danced up to the softness of thick dark hair, found his cheek as a warmth to cup her fingers around as she smiled.
I've been waiting for you.
She wasn't sure whose voice that was.
I've found you now.
That was both of them, together.
It wasn't exactly like her dream; there were significant differences, and they all had to do with the disparity between the thought of things in her imagination, and the feel and the warmth and the smell and the sound and the sight of things now, in this perfect, pretend reality, this wonderful and unexpected gift from a friend.
His voice was soft and thoughtful and held a deep current of love that would have taken her by surprise had this not been a dream. It also held a soft but definite Scottish burr that couldn't help but seem familiar.
"Will ye have me?"
The smile that she wore in her dream matched the smile she wore in reality exactly, the twin joys visible to both dream-man and real, for Mr. Barrie's eyes were open.
She heard his voice closer now, felt something like the brush of lips against the shell of her ear.
"Will ye have me?"
I've waited for you so long; would you expect me to turn you down now?
"Oh, James," she said, "it is wonderful, this dream."
"Don't stop," he breathed, "keep your eyes shut, my dear, it isn't over."
"When will it be?" she asked, sadly anticipating its imminent end.
"Not until you answer the boy."
"Then I won't answer him." Her eyes remained shut, but her eyebrows arched almost defiantly; she saw the dream-man regarding her seriously, dark eyes infinite and unknowable.
"Come now, my dear— you cannot leave the lad hanging."
Were there any words to answer him with? Mr. Barrie seemed to have taken her voice in the dream; though it wasn't that, of course, it was that he couldn't do it for her; her voice was the one thing she had to provide for herself. But she couldn't, somehow; she was so wrapped up in every word he spoke that she couldn't think beyond what he thought for her.
No words, then.
Come here. Come closer, please.
The dream-man stood there, silent. Sylvia stepped forward herself, and it was then that she wondered if perhaps that wasn't her sentiment at all, and perhaps her actions were merely an answer to a request she dreamt she saw in his eyes. Her arms enfolded chastely about his neck, she raised her lips to his, and waited.
Here it is, sir; the answer you seek.
He lowered his head.
The feel of his lips on hers was even more real than anything else that had taken place in this gift of a dream world; she nearly cried out at the unexpected warmth. It was quite real, unmeasurably real; so much so that she wondered at it. She wondered how dream embraces could suddenly take on a weight and a warmth that they hadn't previously possessed; she wondered why a dream-man could possibly see fit to touch his fingers to her hair, so gently, as if afraid to touch her, when he already seemed to have his hands at her waist; she wondered why a kiss from a dream-man would be so careful, and yet with a peculiar roughness, for his lips seemed to be chapped.
She didn't quite realize that, at that time, Mr. Barrie's voice stopped its soft exploration of the dream world, and she was suddenly enveloped in a cold white silence.
As she parted from the dream-man, his voice resumed, and its level tone seemed a bit staggered, as though shoved from behind. The world reappeared around her, and again she looked into the eyes of the dream-man. They seemed a bit different, somehow. The light suddenly sparked from those depths; she saw the evidence of a determined sense of humor; he blinked and she realized that, at some point, her eyes had truly opened and she looked once more on James Barrie, her beloved friend.
There was a long and thoughtful pause.
"Thank you, James," she said. "That was lovely."
He ducked his head, eyes flicking to the carpet between his highly-shined black shoes. "Don't mention it."
She knew that night, once she finally managed to go to sleep, she would see that other world again, and that other man. Perhaps this time she could manage to make her voice heard; perhaps this time she could keep her eyes open.
"The answer you seek, sir— is yes."