Hiv

Outside, the sky was a mixture of sun and fluffy clouds. A thin mist was coiled around skyscrapers and, as she looked out she smiled at aunt-like pedestrians as they scurried along the busy street. Clickety-clack, the bright yellow tram running on the old tracks. Traffic stopped, letting the monster pass, then an entire herd of Cadillacs, Chevy's and lower class vehicles eased forward, slowly, pedestrians clung to the shade and at precisely twelve, noon a bomb she had named Priscilla Mae, after the one who had with such precision given her that damned HIV during a wild lesbian night. She had planted the contraption herself, inside the shaft that connected the eighty-eighth with the lower floors. Her little world, worked for and deserved, had stood idly by and done zilch. Now they would know and nothing less would do, than the ultimate, the punishment that fit this crime.