At 1040, it was quite an appropriate time to consider suicide.
Dusk or dawn might hold symbolic significance, or even rush hour. After all, that’s what his whole life has revolved around. Wake, newspaper, headshake. Tube, work, head down, evening rush.
So why should his death be any more significant than his life had been? After all, he had wasted it. Smart enough not to be used as a fool, but not enough to manipulate others. Irregularly nominated Employee of the Month when others couldn’t be bothered to suck up. “Take care of this for me, would you, John?” His boss’d say, and he’d do it, uncomplaining.

“You are not doing your job very well, aren’t you?” John commented.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re supposed to be my guardian angel and tell me not to jump, aren’t you? God knows I’m stressed enough that I’m hallucinating.”
The man in a bowler hat standing beside him leaned on a black umbrella. “I never said I was that.”
“Oh?”
“Come.”
John stepped forward,

And found the air whooshing past him to be most enjoyable.