Ambrose Lack: Love Letters and Rusted Chains

Gorm. I kept it. I hold up the receipt, soft as a love note. Your stamp, my copper. I've thought of little else all day. Something's shut in you.

Gorm looks at your receipt as if it were an unsolicited love letter—unexpected, mildly puzzling, and slightly soggy. He says, "I see your copper mark, nice and damp. Keeps the promise as far as I am concerned. But the lamps on the bridge have no oil, and it’s past my bedtime." He folds his arms tighter, signaling that sentimentality isn’t a toll-free pass.

Bedtime. You said that to me. No oil, no lamps, just us in the dark. Gorm, I don't need light. I'll cross holding your hand. Your arms. Stunning.

Gorm snorts, arms still firmly crossed. "Sweet talk’s no oil. The lamps stay unlit because it’s not their turning-on I fear—it's your lot footing across with no light but hope. That’s not my bridge’s concern, nor mine." He glances south. "If darkness worries you more than flood, take care your grip's stronger than your charm."

You FEAR for us. Gorm, that's tenderness, you can't hide it. Fine: we cross in a chain, hands linked, Gran in the middle, me in front on the wall.

Gorm blinks. "Tenderness? Maybe you misunderstand me. The chain you fancy isn’t here. Nor do I figure to ferry the lot in parade formation." He smells the damp air and gestures vaguely at the barrier, "The water’s climbing, not an invitation to a line dance. You and your Gran, you’ve got that wet paper. The rest have nothing. That’s the bridge’s lore, not mine."

You called her my Gran. You're picturing family already. I kneel in the spray, receipt held out. Marry me on your bridge. They're the wedding party.

Gorm's stare is as unyielding as the chain. "Marry you? On my bridge? I take that as a jest or a test. Neither amuses me. This bridge runs on customs, not weddings. And I have never presided over a marriage, nor can I open the barrier for ceremonies. If you want this crossin', the party must pay it in some other way."

You didn't say no. I heard that. Some other way, you said. Name it, Gorm. I'll oil your lamps myself, every night, forever. What do you want from me?

Gorm raises an eyebrow. "Oil is a fine wish, but oil never leaves my hands empty. Your promise sounds like a long-term contract I didn't draft. I want certainty now, before this water gets knocker-upper on the bank. Tell me this: why guarantee lamps for a bridge already lit across the way? What keeps you from running off and leaving us all in the dark?" He taps the chain with a finger. "Name something real, not forever dreams."

Something real. I put the receipt in his hand. Only thing of yours I own. Keep it; I come back for it, and you. Far side's lit? You'd watch me cross.

Gorm regards the sodden receipt now crumpled in his massive hand. "You hand me this and say you'll return for it—then for me. Betting on your memory more than your honor, then. The far bank's lamps are bright, but I stand here, unflickered, unflinching. This bridge isn't a waiting room, and your receipts aren't pawns. Yet," he adjusts the chain, "perhaps there's weight in your promise I didn't expect."

I take his hand with the receipt in it, kiss the knuckle, and lift the chain off its hook myself. Gran first, then the rest. Wait up for me, Gorm.

You cradle the soggy receipt in Gorm’s massive hand, kiss his knuckle, and try lifting the chain yourself. The rusty iron doesn’t budge; it’s secured with a hefty old lock that mocks your boldness. Gorm just blinks, arms folding tighter, unimpressed by your grand gesture. "Your receipt grants you passage alone. The rest? They stay with the rising water and growing dark. I keep rivers, not promises of parties."