Marcel and Isabelle (part 1)

The river loitered it's way past town, procrastinating its entry into the great Atlantic. Here it ran slow, as it made its lazy, last leg of a long exhaustive journey from the Great Smokey Mountains. Similar to being at the end of a great expedition, it yearned to finally come home. Home was so close, but at the very end the river slowed, holding on to that last moment of the voyage before it ended. Before it became just a memory.

Houlihan Bridge was built three years ago in 1922 to span the Savannah River at the town of Port Wentworth. It was what they called a swing bridge. The center pivoted to create an opening for ships to pass through on their way up to the great city of Augusta. An engineering marvel that put Port Wentworth firmly ahead of it's neighbors and made it the envy of Savannah to the south. 

Of course the envy was short lived. Savannah always seemed to steal the spotlight and the newspapers always seemed to give it to them. This was life in Port Wentworth. Forever one step behind.

It was sunset and there was a slight onshore breeze. Just enough to break the heat, but not enough to entirely drive it off. Marcel, a boy of a meager sixteen years, sat on the stone railing of the Houlihan Bridge. He witnessed, as we have, the river as it meandered by. Darkness began to win it's battle against light. A battle it loses again every morning, but in the evening, an inevitable victory. A victory that closed doors and hinderd the daily toil. A victory that locked us down and turned us inside. A victory that Marcel was still unwilling to accept.

The flowers that were in his hand were laid neatly on the bridge railing. Sill hoping to accomplish their task, but resigned to the fact that they may never serve their purpose. Five o'clock was the arranged time for Isabelle to arrive. The flowers were relegated to the railing at half past six.

The likelihood of Isabelle arriving grew more remote with every passing minute, but Marcel persisted. This was his best and only chance. So fair he thought she was, even then "fair" being an archaic word to describe a beautiful woman, but it seemed the most accurate to Marcel.

Marcel waited. And waited. Doubt crept in as dinner would surely be served and the whole of the town would be happily enjoying their evening meals. Still Marcel waited. And he waited. Until darkness surrounded him, the river, the bridge and the whole town of Port Wentworth.