Fragment (6)

He stood on the unfamiliar bridge in the unfamiliar city. The bridge stretched over the railway tracks that divided the city in half, like a river. He had his gloved hands on the stone railings of the bridge; it was cold, and old, and remembered the times when this city was part of another country and dreamt its dreams of independence. He liked that part of Europe for its dreams, fulfilled and unfulfilled. He felt it matched his own. 

She came across the street to stand beside him, put her hands on the railings. He turned his head to look at her at the same moment as she did. For a while they just looked at each other. 

'You came' she said.

'Don’t flatter yourself for that' he retorted. And smiled. So did she. 

'How do you like my city?' she asked. 

'Haven’t seen much yet.' And it was the truth; he disembarked from the West-East train and headed towards the bridge she said she would meet him on. 'But it looks…' He weighted the words, as there was something in the air, something that underlaid the demure looking biuldings, but he couldn't quite find the right words to describe it.  '… It looks pretty' he finished, utterly dissapointed with his choice of adjectives.
'Glad you didn’t say picturesque' she said. 
'Well, it certainly is, by daylight…'

'It’s about to wake up' she cut in. 'It just needs some coaxing, some pulling and tugging along the right lines. Have you ever woken the city before?'

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