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Bridge with heavy fog

Foggy Story

By Olga Shomska

 
Part I. The Driver

It was early morning, 5 a.m. or around it. I drove in my car. The fog was very thick, so thick that I saw nothing in front of me. But I knew the road since I had driven by it many times.

I was driving across the bridge. The river had to be underneath, but absolutely invisible today. For some reason, I thought about deer. But in my imagination, they were in the river, not on the road.

I almost passed the bridge. I noticed something in the fog. I noticed a figure. It was a human.

I drove closer. It was a woman. It was definitely a woman, as she was naked. I saw the whiteness of her body and the wet, dark hair on her bare shoulders. She was walking on the side of the road not to interfere with traffic on the bridge, though there was no traffic except my car.

I caught up with her and lowered the car window. I began to drive slowly next to her.

She noticed me, that was obvious, but she said no word. In my mind, I was making up many combinations of words that I could tell right now just to start a conversation.

A nice day for swimming, I finally said.

No, the naked woman answered, I don’t think so.

I liked the way her voice sounded.

Not for a human, I added. For deer.

For deer? She looked surprised, though it had to be me who was surprised after seeing her naked on the bridge this foggy morning.

Why not? I asked.

But there are no deer in the river, the naked woman said,  knowledgeably.

You can’t be sure, I insisted.

But I’m sure, she insisted too.

The fog prevents… I started, but she interrupted me.

I see through the fog, she said.

I didn’t believe her but decided to continue talking to her.

What do you see, then? I asked.

Many things, she answered. But not deer.

For example? I asked.

I don’t think you want to know, she answered, and I could swear I saw a slight smile on her face.

But I want, I said, though, in fact, I didn’t.

The bridge ended. I drove it to the end. I had to stop to continue our conversation, but stopping there was strictly prohibited, and I am the one who doesn’t break the rules. I hesitated, I worried. In the meantime, the fog absorbed the naked woman.

Part II. The Man in Heavy Boots

It was early morning, 5 a.m. or around it. I walked quickly across the bridge, wearing those heavy boots. I was obliged to wear them today as I pledged to do so. In complete silence, I heard their deafening sound when touching the ground.

The fog was very thick, so thick that I saw nothing in front of me. I stopped and looked down where the river had to be. I could not see the water, but I thought I might hear the water’s movement. No sound. Either the water was still, or the river disappeared.

I had to hurry up. I took a quick look down at myself: long grey jacket, blue jeans, brown boots. What an outfit! The only piece of clothing I could defend was a light linen tunic, which I nevertheless had to tuck into jeans. It was up to my knees, and one could only imagine my effort to tuck it into the jeans.

I was confident she had to be afore, but not far. I did not feel or smell it, as I was not a beast. It was just simple logic. I would reach her soon.

Suddenly, I heard the sound. It was an extraneous sound. I was not warned about it. I recognized that sound. The noise of wheels on the bridge. A chariot. I smiled at my first thought. What kind of chariot could we be talking about in this millennium?! That was an automobile driving across the bridge.

I was sure the driver did not notice me due to this foolish cap, but I also did not doubt that no car could drive past the naked woman. If she, at least, was still dressed, there might be a chance, but naked….

I heard the car start driving slower. What if the driver invited her to sit inside the car? But she would not agree. She definitely would not agree.

The driver finally dared to talk to the naked woman, if I even could call it talk. Just a trite phrase to start the conversation.

I heard every word of this conversation, and I had to say I was not impressed. I had always been against generalizations. One used the same word “talk” both for good and bad talks, like the word “music” to an uplifting combination of sounds and other painful attempts. That was my theory, but they found it boring.

Anyway, good or bad was the talk ahead of me, and I had to stop it immediately. I took advantage when the driver got confused at the crossroads after the bridge ended. I took the naked woman by the hand and pulled her into the fog. She did not resist at all, as if she was waiting for it.

Now she stood in front of me: naked and gorgeous. I beg to pardon me for using these down-to-earth words to describe her, but I was limited in time.

Part III. The Naked Woman

It was early morning, 5 a.m. or around it. I walked across the bridge. Naked. But it did not bother me at all.

The fog was very thick, but I did not care since I could see through it. I felt water droplets on my bare body. My hair was absolutely wet. I thought we were lucky to have skin that did not absorb water. What if the water did not run down our body or dry upon it? Who would we turn into then?

My thoughts were interrupted by the distant rumble of a car engine. The car was driving slowly, presumably due to poor visibility. The man behind me was moving faster than the car. The man in heavy boots, he was following me. I heard the hollow sound when the boots met the ground.

I did not know exactly who this man in heavy boots was, but I had my thoughts on this account. If I turned back, I would see him through the fog, but I did not want to make him uncomfortable. He seemed to have his own plan or execute somebody’s order.

The car finally overtook me. The driver lowered the car window and drove the car at my tempo. I started moving faster, just a bit faster, not because I was afraid, no, I just did not want the engine to stall. The driver was nice, slightly embarrassed, but I could understand it. I was sure he did not notice the man in heavy boots behind me. To the driver’s credit, I was not invited to sit in the car. I was sure most drivers would invite a naked girl on the bridge early in the morning to get into their cars, but not this driver. The matter was not in my moist body that could wet a car seat but in something else.

In the meantime, the man in heavy boots behind me almost caught me up. The driver talked about deer in the river, and it surprised me. I thought it might be a good story to tell friends, only here I had no friends.

The man in heavy boots behind me soon became beside me. He used the chance when the driver got confused at the crossroads and pulled me into the fog. I stood in front of him. The man was tall and broad-shouldered. He was wearing a peaked cap, which did not fit him at all. Blonde, wavy hair was visible from under the cap.

The man in heavy boots looked at me for some time, and I, in turn, looked at him.

You are naked, he finally said. 

I couldn’t argue as, indeed, I was naked.

Take my jacket, he added.

Honestly, I did not want to wear it, but I felt the man in heavy boots would like to get rid of his jacket—and the sooner, the better. He felt uncomfortable in his outfit, that was obvious.

Okay, I said, give it to me.

The man in heavy boots took off his jacket and put it on my bare shoulders. I noticed an odd piece of clothing on him under the jacket. A sleeveless blouse fastened at his shoulder with a brooch and carefully tucked into his jeans.

We walked along the embankment over the river. I put my arms in the jacket sleeves and fastened the buttons. I put my head down and smelled the jacket. I was disappointed as the fabric didn’t retain the man’s smell.

Now we looked like a normal couple walking through the river embankment in the early morning. Well, to be honest, not like a normal couple, but rather as a couple of freaks. Nevertheless… we walked in total silence. Since the man in heavy boots knew the route and I saw through the fog, we both knew where we were going.

I put my hands into the pockets. My right hand touched something cold. It had to be a blade, presumably a knife blade. I found the handle and squeezed it. I did it mindlessly, without thinking of the consequences. What if the man in heavy boots killed somebody and I left my fingerprints on the murder weapon?

Did you kill somebody? I asked.

It doesn’t matter, the man in heavy boots answered.

In fact, he was right: it didn’t matter. I loosened the fingers to release the knife’s handle.

From this distance, the figure ahead of us became more visible. Somebody dressed in a long raincoat. A hood was worn over the head to hide the face, I guessed. The figure in the hood was standing near a small boat by the river.

He’s there, I said to the man in heavy boots.

The man in heavy boots looked at me strangely, as he could not see anything ahead because of the fog.

We’ll have a boat trip, he said.

Sounds lovely, I answered, as indeed it did.

We reached the person with the boat who was still wearing the hood. Let’s call him the boatman, as it was apparent the boat belonged to him.

We didn’t exchange a word, didn’t shake hands, nothing. The boatman gave us a sign to get on board. The man in heavy boots came first, then me, then the boatman.

We pushed off the shore. The boatman sat in front of me and rowed. He moved his hood back to see better, or for some other reason. In any case, I had a partial view of his face, and I recognized it. I smiled. No doubt he was the driver from the bridge. He caught my eye and understood that I recognized him. I was sure he wanted me to recognize him. The sooner, the better.

I looked back at the man in heavy boots. He had removed his cap. With his blonde, wavy hair, equal posture, and straightened shoulders, he looked gorgeous.

What a trip it’s going to be, I thought to myself, and squeezed the knife handle in my pocket.

 

 

Olga ShomskaOlga Shomska is a writer and scriptwriter from Kyiv, Ukraine. Her “Deer Story” was published in the American Literary Review, and “Flash of Lightning” was included in the short story collection Kudafudra. Olga’s script Island is at the development stage by the Italian film production Bedeschifilm. As a co-writer, she worked with the Portuguese production Bando à Parte on the script for a feature film. Olga’s stories are usually her dreams printed on a typewriter.

Header photo by arthurgphotography, courtesy Shutterstock.