it was my bridge, and i could be found there almost every day at approximately 9:10 with a coffee yogurt and Jones soda. it was quiet on that bridge. the tourists were as numerous as the hours of sleep i had received the night before. after all, who has a need to go to the art shop or the bank when they weren't open, unless of course they were planning on robbing them? and who in their right mind would rob a building with a girl in polyester pants and a denim shirt standing guard in front of it? yep, that was my bridge, and sometimes it seemed that everyone else knew it. as the summer progressed, the little brook that ran parallel to the bridge slowly dried up. i would spend the majority of my break pondering what I would do if my shoe fell off into the still muddy crevice. the sun would shine brightly on my breaks, like the sun that greets you when you unzip your tent to walk into the morning, the smell of coffee and bacon beckoning you to explore further than the cocoon in your sleeping bag, all despite the brisk chill in the air. that was life on my bridge, minus the smell of bacon and coffee. hours later, my bridge wouldn't be so appealing. the tourists now would be as numerous as the potheads that kept me up the night before, and my mind would be elsewhere anyways. it would be focused on the post office. the steep walk up the hill was the least of my worries as i wondered if my far away love had written me, or if i had gotten letters from home, or better yet, packages. but the bridge didn't mind. it knew i would be there tomorrow, where it's beams shaded me not only from the sun, but from reality for a mere 15 minutes. it was my bridge indeed.