The story I want to write begins with the bridge. The bridge soars far overhead. It’s hard to ignore; I can hear it even at night as I fall into sleep. But that’s not right. It is easy to ignore. I don’t notice it anymore. If I had real silence, I’m not sure what I’d do.
It’s at its loudest just before you walk under it. As you pass under it, you can no longer hear it, or, rather, the noises it makes are completely different. The roar of the cars reverberating between the two layers of the double-decker bridge falls away, replaced with the strange hollow sounds vaguely hinting at the vehicles rushing above. The ever-present rain also falls away. The city’s pavement, normally perpetually wet in the fall, winter, and spring months, is perpetually dry under here. And then, as soon as you move into that strange dead zone, you’re out of it, the roar of the cars returning.