We don’t need to know why he had found himself standing on the bridge, other than it was something about his not being able to understand what she could not articulate.
He didn’t stand there longer than it took to think of his children, the paramedics who would have to pronounce him dead and whoever it might be that witnessed his last moments. He walked on towards the market wiping away tears with the heel of his palm.
He’d heard of an English language bookshop on the west side of the city and hoped he might find something to hold his interest there. Perhaps a novella, or collection of short stories from somewhere else, somewhere more engaging than a Victorian seaside town with less than half a pier.