“Beats me. Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. All this juncture, a thundering crash was heard against the side of the bridge. I’m not ashamed—of the things I’m doing. “That’s not working so well for you, is it?” She looked at him sheepishly, bringing a Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe away the excess.
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