One bridge. Two people. A million padlocks on a bridge in Paris.
The padlock is chunky and silver, initials roughly etched into it with a tiny screwdriver.
A ring dangles from the loop, clenched uncomprehendingly in trembling fingers.
He drops to one knee and asks whether he would be able to make her happy for the rest of her life. She says yes. A million tears.
The padlock is attached to the bridge and locked forever. The keys are thrown over the side and into the Seine. Sinking beneath the gun-metal grey depths into eternity.
And that was how Mr P asked me to be Mrs P.