Cover the public housing with soot, surround it with a row of dirt-storing  warehouses, brake windows here and there, crack the asphalt on the roads and uproot few hydrants, too. And don't forget to add a bar on each street, the bar where drinks would sell which could add the rainbow colors to the drab of the day which resembles yesterday, tomorrow's twin, and on and on. And over this valley at the edge of the city build a bridge so immensely high that to the peoples gathering below it would seem to be a sliver of heaven.

    They were carrying chairs out of the beer joint onto the street and on the sidewalk.
    "Hurry up, you guys, hurry up!" The skinny one with the weasel's face urged them, his eyes high glossed over with eagerness, darting somewhere high up and back again to the entrance of the bar. The big one, with a rudy, pitted nose on which the tangle of purple veins wrote the story of breakfast alcoholic, carried two chairs, easily. There still were some muscles under his hippopotamic wrap of blubber. He could have been a trucker because of his cap's claim of "No F-word-No Trucking".
    There was and old man with wrinkled gray face in wrinkled black suit, gesticulating spastically, pointing spots for the chairs. "Put them in a row, facing that way, idiots!" He was bent sideways and forward, but the curvature of his back was not of hunchback severity, yet. Nobody paid attention to him and he seemed not to expect one. He championed his decrepitude with an occasional coughing spell.
    The woman (it seemed to be a female), in her thirties or sixties, also advised. Time to time she would abandon her agitation and with her fists buried in where the waist used to be, elbows high, she would tilt her head backward and stare up. Smile would come to her face, failing to improve it.
    "Let's put out the long table, too," the beer bellied authority ordered from the bar's doorway. "Move your ass, it could happen any minute !" He sported a sailor's cap, pushed back to provide him, perhaps, a carefree image. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and one knew the ropes of the muscles of his forearm did not acquire the bulk by only lifting beer mugs. The skin fold flapping from his chin to the bottom of the red neck enhanced his weighty authority as it does to a male iguana. The table was carried out in an instant. Then the toughie brought out six mugs, by three in each hand, spilling the foam, only. Some pickled herring and pickled sausages with onion were brought on the table, the bread sliced thick on wooden plate was on the house.
    Few more customers brought out more chairs on the sidewalk, while not neglecting their beer. One held a shot glass with clear fluid. When they drank from their mugs tilting their heads backward their head remained tilted back whiletheir mug went down on the table. Up turned eyes of all customers seemed fervent, some narrowed them in smile, most  appeared eager in anticipation. The mood was becoming festive with clinking of beer glasses, contented chatter, mumble and mutter of tongs sluggish by the drink. The ageless woman pointed up above her again, chuckling. "Takes her time," she said. "She takes her goddam time."
    The sun, seeing enough for today, hurried to hide behind the roof of the tallest warehouse. The air was dead, it was hot and steamy, the climate of violence for some, of lethargy for others and, possibly, of suffering which became unbearable - for one.
    She was not alone on the bridge. Ambulance blocked the traffic in one lane, patrol cars rotated their blue electronic fireflies, police psychologist talked to her with trained calmness from few step away. She balanced on the railing holding on a steel cable.
    How old was she? Was she pretty? Was she smart? Did she loose a family or lover? Was her despair unrepairable? Or was her body diseased? We do not know and if we knew, it would be another long story, because every human story must be long if told in truth and story of self-destruction should be contained in thousand pages.
    She had a loose black frock which would stretch in flight like monstrous raven's wings. The wind blew her long hair over her face, but in the fall the hair would follow like the comet's tail. If she would take the lethal plunge would she make a sound other then swishing pitch of the wind? Or will she fall as silently as owl flies across the moon? But are we sure that she devised the free fall of her free will?  To free herself, will she descend into the oblivion, now? Why is she waiting - the sun fell, already.

    The only thing certain was that the peoples deep down on the street were ready. The beer flowed still but the supply of the pale, pickled sausages with plenty of onion was exhausted by those  in the delightful anticipation.