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I wish I could remember the song we were dancing to the night our second-floor bedroom gave way and flattened the apartment below. Whatever it was, it was fast. Made us stamp our feet and jump, bend our hips and wave our arms. The three of us like that, speeding through a moment we couldn't recognize. Then the floor fell in. But, it happened slowly, taking what felt like TV seconds, a long stare of time in which I was aware of everything in orbit, every sight, sound, smell. My daughter pitching forward, diving one-handed, the other hand still in mine, legs suspended in air and straight, my wife's mouth in a great big O, her long, black hair flying upwards, bacon cooking in the apartment below, our neighbors always always cooking bacon at night, a ritual snack whose smoke-barrel taint daily drifted through the shared vents and the fissures of the old flooring.

Story by:

Christopher Bundy

3 April 2014