The Tipping and Dripping Effect

The gentleman tipped his hat to her, yes he did. He tipped it as any other fine man would have done.

And the tipping led to dripping.

The powdered fog lazes sleepily along sidewalks, and through the outskirts of a high-class district. An unintelligible murmur of voices passes far into the distance, and a darkened figure stands alone on the bridge. He watches the water flow, his eyes smothered under the brim of a black hat. The shadows run along his face, contouring a distinguished nose, and high cheekbones framed by black shards of finely-kept hair. The man stands at the bridge’s wooden railing, and admires the flickering orbs of light as they dance across the cityscape and through the night. As he watches, the carefully blanketed silence is deftly sliced by an intruding clatter.

This clatter of heels dances and tiptoes its way down the narrow street, stepping on dark cobblestones while being mindful of gauze skirt hems. The noise pauses shyly, in a fancy, petal pink crinoline and cocks its head to the side thoughtfully. Regarding the shadowed man curiously, the heels continue their way along the sidewalk, and onto the bridge. The black top hat tips in a show of politeness to the young girl, who smiles in return.

A crowd gathers in the early-morning light, pressing up the bridge and around the scene. Paying them no mind, the doctor continues to murmur a prayer, and covers the man’s face with a practiced motion. They freeze in a silent tableau, stirring only as a slow drip stretches from his cold neck to meet the ground.

The tipping always led to dripping