I sit on the edge of the building, forty-two stories up. The sun is in my eyes, slowing setting. The people below watch me--waiting to see what I will do. Lucky for them, I have not decided yet. Most of them would not have even know I existed up here on a ledge on the forty-second floor if I had not made the mistake of kicking off my sneaker. My toe ached from being slammed into the masonry when I climbed out here, and I kicked off my shoe in protest of the pain. The shoe fell forty-two stories to its death, crashing to the pavement and attracting a crowd, who now stare up at me and wonder when the other shoe will drop.


My body hurts all over. I am not sure why. Probably, it is manifestation of my anguish and indecision. Those are negative sensations, but sensations nonetheless. That seems to be all that I have anymore. The last good thought or feeling must have been--well, I don't know--it's been a long time; too long. It's hard, you know, when the only feelings that you have are anger and frustration and jealousy and sadness. Psychiatrists (bless their naive hearts) call them negative emotions, as if they were somehow undesirable or unwanted. But for me, up here on a ledge of the forty-second floor, I understand clearly that these emotions are the only things real about me. My anger, My jealousy, My rage, My disappointment. And when I think about it, these are the only feelings that have never abandoned me. Joy, love, accomplishment--those are fleeting weak emotions that come and go as they please. They are cowards! Light travels fast, but space is expansive, and it swallows up the moments until all that remains is darkness and silence. Let me tell you.


The sun was shining and we were walking through the park, smiling at each other until we blushed. Lucy told me she was pregnant; we were going to have a baby. I was happy. I held Lucy's hand, harder than I have held onto anything before or since. I moved my office from the side room to the corner of the den so we could have a nursery. We painted the walls and shopped and laughed. Resting my head on her chest at night while we lay in bed together, I talked and sang songs to the child inside her. Everything was light.


When the baby came, it was clear that I was not the father, and Lucy, sobbing, confessed. She begged and cried and pleaded, but what could I do? I left the hospital and drove until the sun ran away and the the cowardice of joy became evident. Betrayal wrapped me like a cloak and held me tight. It was my constant companion. When I returned home, the apartment was dark. Only shadows dwell there now. Love is a coward.


I sway my feet back and forth over the edge in a rhythm of an imaginary song--a dirge I hum from time to time. I am in no hurry to decide. I watch more people gather below. They are like ants, scurrying around trying to look busy for the queen. They are deciding too, debating what to do about the man with one shoe dangling forty-two stories above the pavement. They have a tough job. I could reach them in a few seconds. One shove and off I go. Before they could react, I would be there, smiling at them. On the other hand, they have a chore to get to me. And who would they send?


Once, I made a lot of money. Designing buildings is lucrative work. Ever expanding cities with their ever-expanding economies provide a steady income for those who can think upward rather than outward. Cities have to move up when they cannot move out, and I mastered the upward design. High rises, condominiums, company headquarters--many of them are my designs. Many of my buildings have been on the news. My reputation was important, and my firm paid me well for it. Then, a builder cut corners and one of my buildings collapsed. Three hundred people were trapped and all of them died. How many lives were ruined? Although it was clear that I was not to blame, and I never faced any charges, my reputation was tarnished. No one wanted me to design buildings for them--”just in case” they said. The firm let me go. Now I work in a coffee shop. How many lives were ruined? Integrity is a coward.


Now I sit on the edge of a building I designed (it's only fitting!) and which has not collapsed. I have to make a decision. Perhaps I should tender my resignation at the coffee shop--a two second notice. I can see the little shop from up here on the forty-second floor. They are serving coffee to onlookers and have no idea that it is me up here. That is how insignificant everything is. It is amazing how clear everything becomes when you are above it, looking down. Darkness, an old friend, has come to join me on the ledge. He starts giving advice. What an easy thing, to push with two hands and cast yourself into oblivion. It is far easier that the alternative of trying to navigate the million points of light that flicker around you. It makes you feel like bait. Will-o-the-wisps, they move as you get closer, forcing you to chase a dream you can never quite grasp. By the time you think you will catch it, it has vanished, but by now you are so far into the swamp that you cannot go back. You much either keep trying to grab the illusion or die in the swamp. I am deciding.


I hear a shuffle to my left. I do not need to turn my head to know what is happening. A man leans out the window. He stinks of stale cigarette smoke and dollar cologne.


“Hey,” he says. “How's it going up here?” I do not want to look at him. “My name is Lucien. My friends call me Luke.


“I'll call you Lucien, then,” I say.


The man chuckles. “Whatever works. Listen, I just came up here to see how you were doing.”


“Liar. You came up here to stop me from jumping.”


“How do you know I am not up here to return your shoe?”


“Because I know who you are. I know what you represent. You came up here to save me.”


“Guilty as charged,” said the man. “Why not make it easy on me and come off the ledge?”


Once, my parents were active retirees traveling all over the world. They saw Paris, London, Athens, Istanbul. They were creatures bathed in light, angels. But light, as I mentioned, must always give way to the more natural and steady state of darkness. Dad started forgetting things--little things at first. No one really paid much attention. As the disease spread, he lost more and more of himself. His light began to fade, and when the burden became too much for mother, I bore the brunt of care. Near the end, dad did not recognize me or mother. He did not even know where he was. I watched his mind waste away until the last spark was extinguished. Mother died eight months later to the day. For her, darkness came quickly, like a fall. I found myself utterly alone in the world, except for Lucy. Devotion is a coward.


“Go away,” I tell Lucien. I scoot myself down the ledge, inching further away from the man in the window. A light breeze tossed my hair.


“Really, do you mind getting off the ledge,” he said. “I get a little queasy in high places.”


“Too bad. I was going to ask you to sit with me.”


“Really?” he asks.


“Then I was going to push you,” I say.


He does not find my joke amusing. Perhaps he does not think it is a joke. I am not sure that I think it is a joke. I might actually push him if he comes too close. I would have to decide.


“So do you mind telling me why you are up here?” he asks, trying to take control of the situation.


“I got lost,” I say. “I thought this was the bathroom.”


Lucien chuckles. “I appreciate a sense of humor. You don't sound like someone who is suicidal.”


Offended, I turn toward him. What is he saying? I think about my parents, and about Lucy and the child that is not mine. I recollect that I am utterly alone in the world. My job, my friends, my colleagues have all abandoned me. I think about the money I have earned and the money I have lost. The memories hurt. Joy and integrity and devotion have all abandoned me. I have swallowed them, digested them. I am darkness, but I am not suicidal. I only think that jumping would be kinder, faster--a more direct path to inevitable oblivion. A fall from the edge is a fall from grace, a metaphor.


“I am not suicidal,” I say to Lucien.


“Whew,” he says, wiping fake sweat from his forehead. “That makes my job much easier. Of course, that begs the question--”


“Why am I up here?”


“Well?” Lucien has come part way out of the window. In the darkness I catch a glimpse of his badge. Since the incident with the collapsed building, I do not trust police. Even though I was not charged, the detectives seemed to act like they thought I was guilty of something. That is what they always think. They live in a world of assumptions and guilt, always looking for the worst in people. They look for ways to make you feel guilty even if you are not guilty of anything at all. Perhaps that makes them the wisest people on the planet. I feel a lot of guilt, even though nothing is my fault.


“I don't trust you,” I tell him, nodding my head toward his badge. His hair is mussed in the wind, and he looks ridiculous. He smells stale and sickly, like a corpse badly disguised with cologne.


“I don't blame you,” he says. “Cops are mostly fat liars. Shit, I lie to my wife and kids and myself every day. I tell my wife I love her every day. Fact is, I haven't loved that woman in years. I think my daughter is a spoiled prick and my son is a mooch who lives in my basement. I lie to them every time I tell them how proud I am. They lie to me every day too. I lie to my Captain every time I call in sick and go fishing instead. I lie to him every time I tell him how much I like this stupid job. I lied to him when I told him I was okay going to the forty-second floor to talk down a strange guy on the ledge with a missing shoe. I lie to you when I tell you that I care if you jump or not. It's just what we do--what we all do. We are a nation of liars, and we lie because that is all that we know how to do anymore.”


I read somewhere that no one can remain sane for long under conditions of absolute reality. So perhaps we invent lies to circumvent reality, to allow us to survive. Lies are light, so they are easy to carry. The lies allow us to remain sane. “Do you suppose that's it, or do you suppose we are all just too afraid to face the truth?” I ask him.


“I don't know. Does it matter?”


It is true that reality is hard to bear. Everyone just becomes a coward and lives through the lies. Eventually, no one can tell what is true and what is not. Lies become truth. “Those are most honest lies I have ever heard,” I say. Carefully, I get to my feet and inch closer to him. “Do you suppose that liars are the only honest people left on Earth?”


“Count on it,” he says. “Now come join the rest of us liars down on Earth.”


I have decided. I inch toward him in the darkness. Like love, like devotion, like integrity, I am a coward. I need to make peace with it. Almost to the window, my shoe-less foot slips beneath me. I see Lucien grab for me, his fingers grazing mine as I tumble backward.


Curious feeling, falling. It is sensationless and timeless. Six seconds may as well be a millennium. I float with joy and devotion and integrity and play with them like toys. I see Lucy and my parents and I hug them each until their lights go out one by one by one and the cloak of darkness envelopes everything.