Everett’s not asking why anymore. He rubs the wedding band on his finger, shimmies it down to his knuckle, and pauses. The band hovers loosely as he steps closer to the edge of the bridge. He looks over to Staten Island and over to Brooklyn. The adrenaline is numbing. He sticks his hand into the wind and shakes the band free, letting it fall into the blackness. He watches it disappear, wanting to hear it break the water’s surface. This is what he’s gotten himself into. The groove in his finger where the band once was is a smooth valley and it makes him realize she’s carved into him. It reminds him why he is doing this. From behind, the sound of a car horn emerges, as the bridge, brittle, wavers in the wind.
