10.1

When, exactly, does a person fall, or rather, when can you say he has fallen? Is it the jump, or the landing? Is it the whistle of air in his ears? Or is it the too-bright sun that streamed in the bedside window, sun that he blinked at, rolled over, and grumbled his way out into the kitchen to find a pot of cold coffee waiting to kick him out the door and into the car where he struggled his way into town just to find that he had, in fact, lost his job yesterday and just forgot, a tragedy stifled only by a concerted effort and a resolution to try something new today and a chance to spend the last paycheck he would receive for some time on a frivolous plane flight and a parachute lesson from a woman he'd been seeing for some time but not professionally, mostly because he was concerned that he might be falling for her. Or is it somewhere in between?