At what point in the whirlpool of a breakup — collecting the clothes, returning books, clearing out the accounts, screaming on the phone– does one remember, “oh hell, the lock on the bridge. What did you do with the damn key?”
“What do you mean, me? You were supposed to take care of it.”
For how long does one rummage the detritus of a relationship before one reaches for the wire cutters? Is it a chore for the offended party alone? If you’re angry enough to commit the sacrilege of cutting the fence, don’t you still care? What if the the key really isn’t lost, and one party to the breakup is withholding its whereabouts? How many relationships have come back from the brink during the deeply symbolic search for the key?
Tearing a hole in the fence, that’s Full Bitter. If I can’t be happy no one else should be, either.
The living water of the LA River is unperturbed by the operatics on the bridge. Nature has a way of upstaging all of us.