Fiction: The Midnight Bridge Club

This month's Words for Wednesday is hosted by Cindi at her blog, Of Dandelions and Sunshine. For more takes on this week's prompt, visit Cindi's blog here.
    This week's challenge: They say a picture is worth 1,000 words. Write at least 100 words about the image below.

Fiction: The Midnight Bridge Club

In the semi-darkness, a man on a motorcycle slowly drove toward the entrance of the Mackinac Bridge. The wind blew a few strands of his black hair and caused them to flap against the scar down the side of his forehead. After a few minutes, he got off and steered his motorcycle pass the toll booth and onto the bridge deck. In a white button shirt tucked into black khaki under a black denim jacket, some might mistook him of heading toward an office meeting even with the pointed leather boots.
    The time was a little after midnight. A low fog hovered around the bridge.
    A few distances away, an old gentleman was making his way toward the deck. Underneath a dark jacket that was much too large for his frame, he wore a blue pineapple pattern shirt and gray shorts that ended at the knees revealing skinny, hairy legs and feet covered in white, slip-on sneakers. He carried a large brown box on his left arm and a blue and white cooler on his right. A faint scent of smoke followed him.
    The two men paused at the center of the bridge. The younger man, a head taller than the older one, nodded and the old man mirrored his gesture along with a wide grin.
    "Hey you two!"
    The men turned their heads.
    A woman was half running, half walking toward them. The hem of her long skirt flipped up and down. She was dragging a suitcase with a a baby blue Remington typewriter tied at the top. They had heard she had lost the cover to her typewriter years ago on a trip. It fell into a river while she was typing.
    "I don't like this fog," she said with hurried breaths. "But it is a good time to write."
    The men nodded having heard the woman repeated the same phrases every time they met. There was always a fog no matter the season and she was always in the mood to write unless it was daytime.
    She was the youngest of the three, perhaps by a decade or less. With her semi-gray and brown hair in a bun and large black-trimmed eyeglasses, she appeared much aged. Once, out of the blue, she had explained her premature grays were from years of raising a child, going to law school and holding a waitressing job while still in her early twenties. This year, she turned thirty. The men merely smiled. Many a time, she had offered details of her life that was either amusing or pitiful but the men never laughed at her. Their lives, if they were honest, were just as messed up.
    Yellow lights from the lamps on either side of the bridge created three dimmed shadows across the floor of the bridge. The three had met when they had all wandered onto the bridge during a sleepless night. They did not questioned why the toll booth was not manned nor why they were the only three individuals there nor why there were no cars either. They, however, had all agreed, it didn't matter. They had some place to go during their insomnia.
    The woman set her typewriter on the ground. Then she slipped off her low-heeled shoes, sat down beside the typewriter, crossed-legged and spread out her skirt. She unzipped her suitcase revealing a tall stack of paper. Taking a sheet, she inserted it into the typewriter and her fingers began flying among the keys.
    The old gentleman was already taking out firecrackers and matches from the brown box. He set a couple of firecrackers down on the ground in the center of the bridge, lit the wicks and ran back to the two. A flame shot up into the air and exploded. The bright patterns broke up the dark sky. This was repeated a few more times.
    The younger man was leaning against the guard rail with his arms crossed beside his motorcycle. His head was tilted up toward the sky. A faint smile crossed his lips.
    In a slow manner, the old gentleman passed around bottles of beer from the cooler.
    The woman kept typing and taking a sip from her beer now and then while the men, with their bottles in their hands, watched as more light erupted and painted the darkness all shades of hues.
    A cool wind glided back and forth over them. The bridge swayed lightly but the three had been used to this gentle movement and none of them were concerned by this. They were silent while the fireworks whistled, clapped, and fizzed in the sky with a light sound of tapping from the typewriter. During this brief time, they were at peace, not the peace from being contented or the peace from enlightenment but the peace that settled in their heads and bodies and made them think, at that moment, their lives were not so bad.
    Just before dawn, the three packed up, gave each other a smile and a nod before they parted ways. They knew they were going to see each again. There was no need for long goodbyes.