She walked over Waterloo Bridge. To her right, the National Theatre was engulfed with flames of crimson light and to her left, the London Eye glowed a malevolent red. It was like the Southbank was trying to pretend that nightfall hadn’t yet arrived, that it was still sunset. An eternal sunset that would last till dawn. And yet, it wasn’t a comforting light. It was an angry light. Like London was raging against the darkness – drawing battle lines against the black night sky.
The mood had filtered down to the people on the bridge. People marched across it, looking neither left nor right, yet subconsciously absorbing the colours of aggression. No one looked up.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what Waterloo Bridge was about. Usually the pedestrians never contemplated the origins of this bridge’s name. Why think about battles and wars when London’s beauty was spread out around them? This was a bridge for romantics. But tonight, the lovers had chosen to go elsewhere…
The mood had filtered down to the people on the bridge. People marched across it, looking neither left nor right, yet subconsciously absorbing the colours of aggression. No one looked up.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what Waterloo Bridge was about. Usually the pedestrians never contemplated the origins of this bridge’s name. Why think about battles and wars when London’s beauty was spread out around them? This was a bridge for romantics. But tonight, the lovers had chosen to go elsewhere…
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