The small diner was filled with people. At a table in the corner sat three friends, women who, all over 55, were alone. They met every Tuesday for coffee in the early morning.
Phoebe, divorced, was regaling them with tales of her ex-husband. Amanda, long since divorced, was looking bored. Susan, a widow, was watching out the window for the last friend due to arrive. Beatrix was late again.
Beatrix had sent word she had something important, urgent even, to share with them. Suddenly, there was a screech of tires and Susan leaped up and shouted, “Beatrix!” Two cars had collided in front of the shop and in one of them was Beatrix. She had been speeding. What was so urgent?
Beatrix was unconscious. She couldn’t tell them.
*Photo by Phylor