Your Own Beat

The cold, bitter wind tossed the man’s locks to and fro, dancing a cold, bitter death waltz with them. The frothing waters one hundred feet below the bridge were seemingly attacking each other for dominance. It wouldn’t matter. They would be fed soon enough.

The man reflected on how the last few days had gone: he had lost his job, his wife had walked out in disgust, his children handed over to her, his money virtually disintegrated. He had nothing left for the world. The world had nothing left for him.

His hand lay on the frozen railing of the bridge’s edge. Then one foot.

Suddenly, however, he heard an odd rhythm of footsteps over the rushing of the waves. He glanced behind, to see a small man, performing cheesy dance moves and trotting his way down the walk to music only he could hear. The man on the rail looked for earbuds. None.

He felt a strange feeling inside himself. The waves fell behind, and he fell in step behind the odd little man.

They danced their way across the city.

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