The BridgeThe Madame has the most beautiful hands. Small and smooth and white, with perfect moon-shaped nails. I imagine them glowing in the dark, as luminescent as pearls, as bright as the moon. The hands of someone born into a life of leisure, one who has never known hard work.
It is hard to imagine that the Madame was ever poor. Her hair in an elegant bouffant, jewels dripping from her ears and neck and wrists, always beautiful, clad in our national dress: patron to the arts, the Madame that would save us from our poverty, from our ignorance. This is the image she presents to the world.
It had been awhile since she last visited, but with the construction of the bridge, one of her husband’s pet projects, she had returned, drawn by our town’s beauty, or perhaps by her past here, but not
