Lock, not Key

It was a strange place for an American to study, he’d told her. Poland, though, held for her all sorts of charms, not least of all this green-eyed poet. It was love at first sight, if you believe in that kind of thing. It was even if you don’t.

Paris was far too expensive, but tips and commissions left him with enough to take her to Venice. A long weekend found them in Murano and its glass, Burano and tis lace. It was in the later that they found a bridge scattered with locks, just as in Paris. He kissed her than and told her they’d have to bring their own on the next visit.

It wasn’t fair, he knew, to give her hope. Only weeks after their fairy tale his hair began to fall out and he began losing weight. The dreaded C, or the N in Polish, had befallen him, and he was sure as he kissed her goodbye six months later it would be the last.

It’s been two years, and Lucy has returned to Venice, to a water bus to the small island of Burano. The green lock in her hand bears both their names. She clips it on and throws the key a way. A pair of arms hug her from behind.

Thanks to Marek and Lucy, wherever you are, for lending me some inspiration. I have no idea who these people are, I was just captivated by this lock on a bridge in Burano, Italy.