The Golden Gate Bridge-Personal Narrative

Around five, I drive to meet Mark at a restaurant in San Francisco. I chose to go across the Golden Gate Bridge despite a third phobia of mine – a fear of heights. This fear I discovered the hard way when I walked with Mark and some friends across this same bridge for a charity event. I had walked barely a third of the way when I looked down at the water. A dizzying fear took hold. I grabbed the railing and didn’t budge for fear of falling, or as crazy as it sounds, jumping to my death. The rest of the group passed by unaware, as did Mark, who kept walking without me. Unable to move, I remained in a catatonic state for too long. Until a partially-blind woman with a service dog passed and recognized my quandary. She took my hand. And with a few caring words, she assisted me
Sure, I’d love to see where you live.”
It’s nearly seven o’clock before we leave the restaurant. I follow Mark to Haight Street, where we park our cars. The neighborhood has improved. Hip restaurants and shops have settled in replacing the old. Yet, the bohemian nature Mark and I loved remains. I search for the tattoo shop, where I had flowers painted on my face with henna, for a Halloween party at Vivian’s. I ask Mark if the store is still there.
“Yep, with the same owner, and business is booming,” he says, and takes my hand. We walk past rows of colorful Victorian homes and stop at a cobalt blue, two story one. “Here we are,” he says. I follow him up several stairs to a porch, where he unlocks the front door, and we enter.
Inside, the living room is exquisite with fully restored oak floors, and bay windows. He shows me around the two bedrooms and marbled tiled bathrooms. We end up in the kitchen where I’m swept away with melancholy. This is the house we once envisioned one day for ourselves. Only, at the time, we were flat broke. I tease, “Did you rob a bank or what?”
“Let’s just say, I saw the