By Harry B. Sanderford
A small ruby brooch dots her tailored lapel. She clutches at her breast and then holds her hand out as if feeling for rain. She staggers a step, unable to comprehend the sudden rose blooming in her palm. There is just no time for this, she worries. Begging apologies into her headset, she excuses herself, so hoping to reschedule. He lets out his breath as she crumples on the curb.