He hurt. He was sick. Something ached like a rotten tooth, deep inside. He was drinking. He thought it would dull the pain, but it didn’t. He and his girlfriend had broken up temporarily, but she found someone else. She didn’t hurt him. He didn’t care. Only one thing mattered—the pain to go away.

The pain had appeared months ago. At first, he barely noticed it, but over time, it grew stronger. He couldn’t find any rest; this thing, whatever it was, gnawed at him from within.

That night, he left the house. It depressed him. He thought he’d get drunk in some bar, talk to people, distract himself. He went outside. It was cold. The sidewalk was dotted with ice patches. He walked on the grass and got covered in mud. The mud repulsed him and made him sad. He didn’t know why. He wiped his shoes in the snow; some mud remained. And the sadness remained.

He ducked into a bar. Salsa and bachata were playing. He used to dance. Now the thought made him shudder. The music irritated him. The same rhythms repeated over and over. What a bore. 

He sat at the end of the bar. He was hungry. He ordered a burger. While he waited, a pretty Black woman in her early thirties, his age, sat down next to him. She swayed to the music and glanced at him from time to time, giving him signals—to invite her. People were dancing in the bar. It was the wrong bar for him.

The bartender brought his burger. He took a bite and felt nauseous. He was hungry, yet he didn’t want to eat. The woman leaned toward him and said:

“Do you feel like dancing?”

He shuddered. Just the thought repulsed him. What was wrong with him? What was he sick with?

“Is the burger good? Can I take a fry?” He nudged the plate toward her. She took a French fry and dipped it in the ketchup. It looked like clotted blood. Like in his veins. He felt sick.

“What’s your name? I’m Tara.”

“I can’t.”

“What? What’s wrong with you?” she asked, moving her stool closer.

“I just can’t. This. I don’t feel like talking. I’m sick. Here. Eat everything. Cut off the part I bit.”

He stood up. She grabbed his sleeve.

“Stay. Let’s dance.”

He snorted and tore himself free of her hand. He left the bar quickly and walked down the street. Ahead, there was a bridge. A thought passed through his mind, and he held onto it for a moment. He liked the idea. It was a solution.

He sat on the ledge of a low window and rummaged through his pockets. He knew there was a mailing envelope somewhere with a bill in it. He was going to send it the next day. He found the envelope. He opened it, crumpled the bill and the check inside, and put it back. He had a pen. He always carried one. At least once, he would use it. In large letters, he wrote on the envelope:

“I did this of my own free will. I blame no one. Farewell.”

He slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket and headed toward the bridge. He walked slowly but decisively. The bridge was in the middle of the city, but at that hour it was deserted. No one would stop him. It would be quick. The river below was wide but shallow. The bridge was five or six meters high. If he jumped, he would hit the bottom, and the shallow river would be enough to drown him.

He reached the bridge. He slowed his pace. He was almost in the middle. A little more and he would be at the spot from which he would jump.

Something caught his attention. On the outside of the bridge railing, an elderly man was crouched. He was holding on to the railing. The way he was positioned, he couldn’t pull himself back up. It was immediately clear to the man walking on the bridge what the old man intended to do. He had gone there to jump—to commit suicide.

Their eyes met. The man on the bridge realized he had to act, or the old man would jump. If he approached, the old man might let go—but either way, he was going to let go. The man on the bridge took two quick steps, reached the railing, and grabbed the old man by the wrists. The old man jerked back, but the man didn’t let go.

“Help!” he shouted. “Help!”

A man and a woman farther down the bridge heard him, and the man ran toward them. They grabbed the older man. The woman stopped a car, and two more men approached. They pulled the old man up. He stared at the man who had grabbed him first.

“Where the fuck did you come from?”

The man thought for a moment and said with a smile:

“ I was just passing by. I saw you”

“Fuck you. Fuck all of you,” the old man said. He tried to walk away down the bridge, but the others held him back. Soon, a police car appeared. The officers didn’t ask questions; apparently, someone had already called them. They put the old man in the car.

“Where are they taking him?” wondered the man who had saved him.

“Probably to a psychiatric ward.”

He leaned against the bridge railing. The people around him animatedly discussed the unusual incident; from time to time, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He looked downstream. Ahead, another bridge. The lights on it reflected in the river and danced on the water. He reached into his pocket. In the scuffle, his farewell letter had fallen out. He looked around. Only cigarette butts on the sidewalk. He looked back at the river. He thought he saw something white drifting with the current. Could it be his note? The white shape was there, farther downstream, and then it disappeared.

He realized he had taken from the older man what he himself had been about to do. He thought again about what he had wanted. It seemed absurd. He wondered why. He searched for the pain, but where it had been, there was now warmth. The rotten tooth had gone quiet. He was surprised—but he felt good, for the first time in a long while. What could he do now?

Damn it, he felt like dancing.

He looked around, noticing the decorations for the first time—the garlands, toys, and lights. Suddenly, he realized it was Christmas. And how beautiful everything was! He set off at a brisk pace back toward the bar. Hopefully, the woman who had spoken to him was still there. He would invite her to dance. Even if she wasn’t—so what? He would dance alone.

Ah, how light he felt. How wonderful it was not to hurt anymore, whatever that thing was that hurt. Somehow, for some unknown reason, he had been healed. He felt it. He was healthy. At least for now, the pain was gone, and he was going to dance all night.