embarrassing to be here// here to be embarrassing

Matt had nodded off some time back, so there was nothing much for Mello to listen to, just the hiccups of his breathing stopping and starting, jerking Mello’s heart like a string tied around it.

There were 21 bridges leading off Manhattan; 21 possible exits. Don’t even get him fucking started about the tunnels.

But Matt would like a view, he thought; he had said something like this, years ago, when Mello pulled him stumbling out of the thin woods of the hill behind the orphanage. Matt had been fucking freezing to death but all he could talk about were the fall colors and the mosses on rocks. He had fallen asleep right in the bathtub where Mello put him, and Mello watched the ripples shiver and quiet.

Mello drove at 30mph in the slow lane, a rock diverting the stream of continuous honks.

There. A figure slouched over the rail. Mello clicked his hazards on and rolled the car to a stop. The honks got louder outside. Cars began shuttling resentfully into the left-hand lane, and Mello joined them, before coming around the bonnet and vaulting over the barrier to the pedestrian walkway.

“Don’t come closer. I’ll jump.”

Mello sighed; it wasn’t him.

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I heard you.”

“Don’t call the police. I’m serious.”

“I’m not.”

“Really?”

“Do you fucking want me to?”

“…No.”

“Well, then,” said Mello. Someone revved and drove past them screaming, with their middle finger out. He started walking back to his car and then turned back around.

“Don’t do that. You’re going to—” He couldn’t explain it. “—fuck it all up.” When he started his car back up his hands were shaking; his eyes felt cold from the wind blown into their tears.

When he picked his phone back up, he found that Matt had cut the line.

It took Mello until dawn to drive around 21 bridges. After that, he ran out of time. There were too many hospitals for him to get to all of them, it just wasn’t feasible, and he was getting married tomorrow. The sun came up and told him: today. 

His navigation showed that traffic over the Triborough was fucked; they had closed the outgoing lane, someone had phoned in a jumper.

Mello took the long way home. He thought about his childhood.