The Bridge Painters – Part 2: The Last Coat

The final night of the contract fell on a clear one in late October, with a bright moon and a bite of cold in the wind.

The crew packed up early. A beer was passed around, speeches made, backs slapped. By midnight, only Réka and Gábor remained on the scaffold, finishing the last stretch of railing near the eastern tower.

"Last coat," said Gábor.

"Last coat," she echoed, feeling oddly bereft.

They worked in silence, their brushes moving in tandem. The Danube slid past below, silver under the moon, and the lights of Pest shimmered on the surface like scattered coins. The whole city seemed to be holding its breath.

When the final stroke was done, Gábor stepped back and examined it with great seriousness.

"Perfect," he said.

"Is it?"

"No. But it's ours."

She laughed, her breath white in the air. She was no longer afraid of the height. She had not been for weeks. What she was afraid of was ending.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"Is there another job? After this?"

"The next bridge is in March." He turned his brush over in his fingers. "I thought, if you wanted..."

"I want."

"Good." He drew a breath. "May I kiss you, Réka? Forty metres up, on a freshly painted rail? It's wet, I should warn you."

"Yes," she said. "And if I say stop, you must wash all the brushes."

"Two hundred."

"Yes."

He kissed her gently, one gloved hand coming up to cup her jaw, a smear of pale grey paint on his thumb. She tasted peppermint and cold air. The wind tugged at their helmets, and the bridge hummed softly beneath them like a plucked string.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Réka. "Very green."

"You have paint on your cheek," said Gábor.

"So do you," said Réka, and wiped it off with her thumb, and kissed him again.

More romantic stories: Salt and Sugar · The Chess Club · The Glassblower's Daughter