Ghost on the Bridge

As I stood at the base of the south tower on the Golden Gate Bridge, I was mezmorized by the bay of San Francisco stretching out in front of me.  I watched the late afternoon fog toy with the city, darting in and out of the buildings and hills. Yet, I soon felt an unknown force pulling me away from the show. The approach up from the south side of the bridge was packed with tourists from around the globe. Everyone seemed to be in a family pod, stopping for photo ops on their journey over the bridge. What forced me to look away from the million-dollar view was one lone man. 

He looked out of place because he walked slowly up the bridge. He had a slight build even for his mid-twenties Asian frame. In place of a camera to snap pictures, like everyone else, there was a massive bouquet of very expensive flowers in his arms.  Maybe it was the explosion is color that caught my eye, amongst a sea of Golden Gate red, and Nautica black windbreakers. But, I don't think so. I was forced to watch this man.  All time stopped. Just him and me alone on the bridge. Even though we were alone, he never once noticed or acknowledged me. Like I was a ghost on a bridge.  

There was another ghost he was focused upon. As I can't always see ghosts I just asumed this was who he was talking too as he leaned against the rail. He spoke out loud for a minute, but I couldn't hear a word, with me being a ghost and all. He then hurled the massve bouquet of flowers over the edge of the bridge and in a spinning whirl all the tourists appeared again as they gasped and screamed the something had gone over the bridge side. The crowed peared over to watch the falling flowers. I, on the other hand, watched as a human soul went through a catharsis. A cleansing. Only shared unknowingly with me. 

Still locked into place, at the base of the south tower, I watch as this person quickly sped down the bridge.  He was just a dot in the crowd when I came back to life.