If only we could rewrite tragedy.

I watched as the man hurled himself from the 16th floor of the hotel. He stepped up onto the metal rungs of the balcony; those balconies with their rust stains in the corners and their rickety plastic tables decorated with ashtrays and threw himself with no hesitation. There was determination in his eyes and sturdiness in his grip. There were no jitters or tears; no weakness in his jump. It seemed like I was the only one who noticed. In that slowed down moment when his body embraced the cool night air, my heart sank. It sank so low I thought I’d have to pick it up off the asphalt, and in a moment of insanity I thought maybe I could catch him. Maybe I could reach up and snag him by the scruff of the neck; the collar of his jacket all scrunched up between my fist.

And so, I did.

Reaching up, I plucked the floating man, hovering like bright paper against a dark navy canvas, out of the night sky. I folded him up until he could have been mistaken for a grocery list, and gingerly tucked him inside my breast pocket. Later that night, when I got home, I would take him out and work out all the creases. I would take a pen and rewrite what might have been a tragic story.