The demolition crew didn’t speak; they arrived in their crawler crane, set up, and struck. Space after space—a broken heart, wedding bells, a joyous birth, a thousand banquets, a million dance steps, three seductions, a betrayal, a midnight vigil, a wake. The wrecking ball swung back, then drove away.

Ralph Goldswain writes microfiction for pleasure in his London home. He also likes experiencing all the things London offers.