The Way We Fall
by Michelle Muenzler
I'm falling, I'm falling.
Or is it the first--
A window flashes past. 48th floor. Teenage girl, hair hiding her expression. She drops the ring in her left hand, and--
Another window, 35th floor. The building super, sweaty and florid and bent over a sink. He turns his head, reaches back toward his empty belt loop and--
Last window, 18th floor. Unoccupied. Empty. But there, reflected in the window, a glimpse of light. Of lightning. Of an origami scream unfolding, stretching upward toward--
The bottom. Gray concrete. Slick, unyielding. A spot of blue. Bright umbrella falling, falling, falling from her fingers. Eyes meeting, shock, despair, her mouth opens--
I can't do this to her, I won't--
"I'm done," she says. "I can't do this anymore. I won't."