And we ate blood oranges
Yesterday we rode our bikes to the bayou, along the cracked, broken streets, across the bridge, which we had to wait for twice: once on the way over, and again on the way back. It lifted itself high and slow, to descend with a resounding clang. Metal on metal. Painted blue bridge, so the airplanes can see it more clearly, you told me. We dismounted to crossover, you punched the side to feel how it impacted with your fist. Metal on flesh. You like to measure the solidity of things. With the strong winds, looking down through the slits of the walkway, watching the water underneath, we commented on the mild sense of peril we both felt.