“It’s not like you could die from it,” he teased.

“Weirder things have happen, Greg.” She crossed her arms, leaned back in the metal chair and sighed. “And really,” she asked, gesturing with her chin at the surrounding area, “at a bistro – downtown, no less – is where you want this to go down?”

“Sure,” he shrugged, getting down on the sidewalk with a bit of effort. The space was tight between his seat and the normal flow of pedestrian traffic, and he wasn’t a lean man. He reached under the table and retrieved the ring where he had tucked it an hour ago.

“Francine Eversworth, will you marry me?”

[deep within the parietal lobe, a clot slithered into a crevice that was much too small, making it impossible for the blood behind it to flow; the pain bloomed outward and through the body, causing immediate seizures, defecating, and almost immediate death; the scream was heard for blocks]

Greg held his cheap, scratchy blanket around him. As the paramedic’s question, he answered, “I guess it did kill her.”