Caroline Burrows’ poetry has featured on BBC Radio 4, been printed in the BBC Sky at Night Magazine, and been shown at the Sheffield Adventure and Kendal Mountain Film Festivals. Her short stories have been published in The National Flash Fiction Anthology and The Lancaster One Minute Monologues. She has written articles for several publishers including Cycling UK & Adventure Cyclist magazines, worked with cycling theatre company The HandleBards, and taken her own one-woman cycling poetry show on tour.

 

Sandra stood on the footbridge, its metal sides reflecting neon lights from the bars on the harbourside. She watched Martin searching for the perfect section of hand-railing.

‘No, no, no,’ he said, flicking through the little declarations of modern love. One of the locks he’d disturbed clattered onto the concrete walkway, fell through a gap at the side, and into the river.

Sandra looked down at the water. ‘It’s sunk,’ she said. Hardly a ripple was visible.

‘Cheap tat,’ said Martin, resuming his selection process. ‘Check this one San,’ he laughed. ‘Fake gold in the shape of a heart.  Cheese-o-rama.’

Sandra felt the weight of the lock in her palm. ‘Brass is what couples get for their twenty-first anniversary.’

Martin pulled a face. ‘It looks that old. All the rust on it.’

‘Do you think it might be?’ said Sandra, tracing a fingertip over the initials: W.O. + E.B.

Martin snorted. ‘Don’t be daft. Council cuts them off every few months.’

‘Really? That’s awful,’ she said.

‘Course San. The bridge would collapse else.’

Sandra let it go to fall back against the bridge’s metal side. She leaned back on the railing. ‘But what if they come back and find their lovelock’s gone?’

Martin sneered. ‘Who? Walter and Edna. Or Wayne and—’

‘The first name could be a woman’s, maybe Willow.’

‘Willow and Eric, then,’ he said.

‘Could be same sex.’

Martin sighed. ‘Whatever.’

Sandra frowned. ‘I thought people would unlock them themselves…you know…when…or if…they broke up.’

‘Give over. Willomena and Englebert are probably shagging other people by now and couldn’t care less what the council does with their tack.’ Martin moved his body against hers, pressing Sandra against the railing, and went in for a kiss.

Another lock clattered by their feet, ‘Stop it!’ She pushed him back. ‘We’re knocking them loose.’ Sandra bent down to rescue it.

Martin kicked the lock through the gap, instead.

‘What did you do that for?’ she snapped at him.

‘Why are you so obsessed with everyone else’s locks?’ said Martin. ‘It’s this one that matters.’ He waved theirs in front of her.

Their initials did look nice set within a pretty border. ‘I’m not obsessed.  I just think all these lovelocks are really romantic.’

Martin unlocked theirs, pushed a handful of others up the railing, and attached it.  Click.  He made a show of kissing the key, then threw it in the river. ‘There.  How’s that for romance?’

Thunk. A lock near the end of the bridge fell and slid off into the abyss.

‘You can’t blame me or the council for that one, San,’ he said.

‘I thought you were going to check with me first which bit of the bridge ours was going on.’

‘God’s sake! I agreed to do this with you, didn’t I? And I got you a decent lock. The engraving wasn’t the cheapest, either. Come on!’ Martin grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the bars.

‘I don’t feel like going for a drink now.’ She yanked her hand out from his.

Martin rolled his eyes. ‘Fine! Suit yourself. I’m still going.’

Sandra turned and walked away from him. Something clattered on the bridge behind her, followed by the softest of splashes. She didn’t need to look back. She understood why the locks were falling, and knew exactly which one had just broken.