The bridge

In the four years I'd worked in that company, many things had changed in my life. Still, I had always stayed faithful to the rule I had defined on the very first day: I would never date someone from work. At first, it was easy because I was madly (or idiotically, I'm not sure) in love with my boyfriend, but when he left me after more than three years together, the day after my birthday, I struggled a bit. It is difficult to meet people outside work when you spend all your time there. It's pure statistics.

My grandma used to say that good things never came alone. She also told me that to have good things, we must first have bad ones. She passed a long time ago but never stopped to be correct. The day after my boyfriend left me, I got the call to interview for my dream job. Maybe because I was heartbroken, I decided to fight for what I wanted and negotiate a better contract- which I got. I put every cell of my body into that job. I was not thinking about men. I had no interest or time for that.

Days before moving to my new department, I was wrapping up my work, doing some extra time with my last tests, and documenting everything to pass it on to the engineer when I saw him, one of the new designers, visiting the premises on his first day on the job. He was wearing chinos, a shirt, and a blazer, the typical mistake of the rookies thinking they needed to dress up for the office. He was walking around with one of his colleagues, introducing himself, smiling, and shaking hands with everyone. When they arrived at my table, I smiled back at him, introduced myself, shook his hand, and returned to my business. I was busy and had no time to lose. I forgot about him as soon as he left my side, but at lunchtime, there he was again. I had well-settled routines for years: mid-morning coffee with the upstairs girls and lunch with some department boys. That day, the new guy crashed my old circle.

When I moved to my new office one week later, I was new and inexperienced in that part of the business. Still, I was more than a rookie because I had connections. I knew people, and those who had ever worked with me trusted me. So, I played my strengths, kept my old routines, and created new ones. I kept the morning coffees with the girls from administration, the lunches with the engineers, and the work with my new colleagues. Whenever anyone asked me why I was not with those I worked with all the time, I just said I enjoyed having a foot on each side. 

For months, I worked a lot, but I also partied my fair share. I joined the young community in the company and was keen on organizing activities for anyone who wanted to join. And they joined… oh, how they did: karting races, lunches and dinners, karaoke sessions, concerts, and weekend trips. Whatever I wanted, I could do it. If I wanted to go to a concert, I did. If I wanted to stay late, I had no explanation to do. I was alone, for the good and some bad, but it was mostly good, and I enjoyed it all. All those months, the new guy was around. In fact, the new guy became a friend: Paulo.

Since the first day, I liked him. He was extremely polite, almost old-fashioned. He opened the door before you could reach the handle, stood up when I arrived at the lunch table, and always offered help if he saw me carrying anything heavy or inconvenient. During those months, he asked me out a couple of times, but I always said no because I was busy, and I had a rule to respect. He always took my negatives as a champion, with a smile. He never stopped talking to me or showed discomfort about my rejections. I still had lunch with him (and the rest of the guys) every day, and we fooled around in the most professional way when we met ouside work. Some colleagues asked if he fancied me, and he dismissed everything, saying I was unavailable. When they asked me, I said I was not interested. 

We'd had our fair amount of colleague-type- conversations for months when he sat by my side in a restaurant at a dinner I had organized. The wine in my glass might have helped, but I'd rather not blame the alcohol for my behavior. That night, we talked a lot, danced, laughed, and, by the end of it, kissed. No one saw us, though. For weeks, people around us wondered if anything had happened because we seemed closer, even though we were not. After that single kiss, I ran away from him at first, but little by little, we spent more time together, always as colleagues. When we became more comfortable with each other, our conversations turned into cheeky proposals for coffee, "innocent" opportunities for dinners after long days, occasional cinema invites, and surprise concert tickets. I don't know how often I told him I couldn't, wanted, or shouldn't, but he persisted, and then I fell into his trap. He seemed to want to love me so much that I allowed him to love me: I agreed to go out with him.

On a Saturday, after lunch, he picked me up. We went together for coffee and to a concert afterward. He cooked dinner for me. By the end of the day, he took me home, and we spent the night together, but in the morning, I felt bad, terrible, tormented even. What had I done? What about my rule? What would I tell everyone? What would I tell him? I went to the kitchen, grabbed a mug of coffee, and waited for him to wake up. As soon as he reached the door, I smiled at him and told him I couldn't do it. We were not supposed to be anything but colleagues, and I asked him to leave. I stayed in that kitchen, with that cold coffee in my hands, for an hour after he closed the door behind him. I thought I would feel better once I told him we were nothing, but I didn't.

The only person I had told about Paulo was Penelope, one of my childhood girlfriends, who lived far away from me. We talked weekly, so for months, she heard about that nice guy I kept rejecting. His name had become a staple in our conversations. I was restless when I started to move around the kitchen. I needed to move, but I felt tired. I wanted to talk but did not know who to speak with. In fact, there was only one person I could call. Penelope.

The call started as many others before, with me asking how things were with her, her family, and her work. Penelope knew me as only a few did, and she quickly realized something was not right. She asked me about Paulo, and I told her about the previous night and how I had broken up with him immediately after. If I had seen her face at that very moment, I would have seen her rolling her eyes; I have no doubt about it. But she did not tell me anything about that. Instead, she started to ask questions:

"Wasn't him the nice guy?"

"Yes," I replied.

"With good old-fashioned manners?"

"Yes"

"And he made you laugh…"

"Yes, he did."

The more she spoke, the more I questioned why I had called her. If my idea was to have someone tell me how good my decision had been, my plan crumbled at the speed of each of her words. It took less than five minutes to agree that Paulo was nice, confident, funny, well-mannered, interesting, lovable, intelligent, a good son, brother, and uncle, different from the guys I'd dated before… Right then, I hated Penelope for smashing the hard truth on my face and hated myself even more for needing a phone call to realize what I had done.

"Penelope, love, I think I need to leave you," I said.

"I think so, too," she replied.

I looked at the kitchen clock and did what I do many times when I need to think: cook. I prepared a quiche. Waited patiently for the oven to complete its work, waited a bit more for it to cool outside and covered it with foil. With the quiche in my hands, I ran to my car, placed it in the passenger's seat, and started the engine. I drove away from my place to a city I did not know and with no clear directions, and when I was ten minutes away, I called Paulo and asked if he was at home and how to get there.

Paulo was not at home; he was out with some friends, feeling miserable and resenting me for what I had done, but he was gentle and helped me find their location. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

""I brought dinner," I replied, showing the foiled quiche in my passenger's seat.

Paulo said goodbye to his friends, and we went to his place. I took the plate with me, which, at that point, seemed more an element of emotional support than food, and walked up to his apartment.

"We'll need something warm," he said. He prepared some tea and put it in a thermos. 

"Now, we can go," he continued.

I followed him and entered his car. None of us said anything for five minute,s until we arrived at the end of a narrow street close to the river.

"This is my favorite place," he said while passing a hole in a wire fence. I followed him and realized where we were, by the side of one of the city bridges' feet.

He took the quiche from my hands and gave me the tea bottle.

"It will be easier that way," he said, walking the metallic stairs that followed one of the bridge's arches.

I have always been terrified of heights, but that night, it was important to overcome whatever fear I had. I walked behind him until we reached the top. The wind was cold, the water below us was pitch-black, and the sound of the cars above us was the only thing that I could hear. I started to cry.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I was afraid."

"It's cold," he replied. "You should drink something."

He took the bottle and served the cup, the only one we had.

"You have none," I said.

"I have you," he replied. 

And he was right. He had me. He has had me since then.