He’s out there. On the ledge. There is no parachute. No net below. A hundred feet above the street. Cars and trucks, pedestrians, hot dog vendors, taxis, and cop cars race up and down. A small girl points at him.

He’s eating a sandwich. His last one. Tuna on toasted wheat with cheddar cheese. A can of Coke sits beside him. It sweats in the summer heat.

He’s humming his favorite song, Central Park West runs through his head. The version Coltrane made famous. His fingers snap to the rythm in his mouth. The man points at clouds. An airplane goes by. A crowd forms on the sidewalk. His palms are wet.

Someone yells out, Don’t do it. But, he can’t hear them. He hears nothing but Coltrane playing his saxophone. Suddenly, there’s a cool breeze, and all seems right. He stands on the ledge. He does not look down. Coffee sounds good.