Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Does she need anything? Is she okay?
Of course she was okay. She was away from me, wasn’t she?
“Price?”
Jennifer said my name again, a little louder. “Price? Did you hear David’s question?”
I tore my gaze from the camera feeds. “What? No, I’m sorry.”
“About the proportion of the towers and suspender cables?” said David. “I don’t question the viability of the structure, but the design is so...spare.”
“I want it to be spare. It’s the Un-bridge. That’s the whole point.”
We’d been over this already. Vancouver wanted a bridge, and I wanted to try something new, an homage to Chere’s spare and delicate jewelry designs, only scaled to massive size.
“I’ve done the math,” I said. David, the fucking upstart. “Praneesh has looked at it too. The numbers work.”
“I’m sure the math works, but you’ll have to light the towers and the main cables. Otherwise, no one will see them.”
“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Bridges don’t have to be solid, inflexible behemoths. This one can move with the earth.”
Jennifer and Hannah were on David’s side, even though the City of Vancouver was on board with the visionary design.
“They want something new,” said Praneesh. “Vancouver’s a progressive city.”
“It’s barely there,” David persisted. “People won’t feel secure when they’re on it. It’s not appropriate bridge design.”
“Not appropriate?” I wanted to follow that up by shouting “Fuck you and what’s appropriate,” but I kept the words inside, because this was a business meeting and I was the boss, and I had to present a composed and capable front. That way, when my associates told me something wasn’t appropriate, that a design wouldn’t work, I could stand my ground and say, yes, it fucking will.
Because there was always a way to make things work, if you looked hard enough. I’d done the math and calculated countless distances and angles. I’d designed the safest, most understated, environmentally friendly, weatherproof, and elegant bridge anyone had ever seen, and fuck me if some MIT grad with a hard-on for girders and concrete was going to tell me it wasn’t appropriate.
“The cost of the lights will be offset by the durability of the materials,” I said. “If you start adding more bulk to the cables and towers merely for visibility—”
“Visibility is an important part of bridge design.”
“So is innovation,” I snapped.
“It’s just...” Hannah the peacemaker spoke up. “It’s just a real departure from our usual designs. I think it’s beautiful and viable, just...really different.”
“It’s growth. It’s expanding our portfolio. It’s changing with the times, moving from amplification and ostentation to refined simplicity. In that setting, in that geographical location, it will work.”
The voices at the table went quiet as I showed them the renderings again. This wasn’t just about the bridge; it was about the bridge’s place in the world. Funny how it had taken Chere’s unconventional aesthetic to teach me that.
God, Chere. It still fucking hurt to think about her. I stared back at the camera feeds while my associates debated the merits and drawbacks of the Vancouver bridge. Through the haze of my disaffected pain, I could hear David and Hannah coming around and admitting it was a visionary project. That should have made me happy, but it was an empty victory. The woman who had inspired this elegant vision was gone.
We put the Vancouver plans aside and moved on to other projects on the docket. Chere was gone, but life went on. Cities expanded, skylines changed, and structures came into existence through deep and thoughtful planning. There was more work to do. There would always be work to do, even if there was no one to share it with in my personal life.
Jesus, I was so fucking lonely without her. I still loved her, that was the fucked up thing. I’d always love her, just as she’d always loved Simon, even though their whole thing was a train wreck. Sometimes there were just bonds between people. Not manacles or leather cuffs or rope, but bonds deep inside you, because someone understood you and accepted you despite all your pathetic flaws.
But whatever. I could still work. I could go home and eat, and read, and drink wine now and again to remind me there was some good in life, even if I didn’t have Chere kneeling at my feet. I was on my second glass of wine Thursday night, deep in the poems of Percy Shelley, when my phone pinged with a text from Vinod. Because of his association with Chere, we’d become something more than business acquaintances.
I’m leaving for India soon, he wrote. Need anything?
I thought a moment, then texted, Saffron from Kashmir. And Kismi Bars. Hundreds of them.
He texted a line of pig emojis, then the words As you wish.
I frowned at the screen, wondering if Vinod had been in contact with Chere since she left me. They used to speak by phone at least once a week. I could ask him if he’d been in contact with her, but it was none of my business, since Chere and I weren’t together anymore.