Gregson breathed the recycled air and watched the ground get smaller. He was fasting the last 10 days. His goal was to starve the cancer so it couldn’t metabolize. Tumors love sugar and so did he, but he resisted his love to live a bit longer, that was… until he couldn’t.

“Stewardess, would you get me a beer?”

“We aren’t called stewardesses anymore.” Gregson looked at her.

“Oh, what do they call you then?” He asked.

“Flight attendant.” She said this with status. Gregson looked at her tall figure; she was a vase without any flowers. Her long legs flowed into her swollen head.

CRUSH. She popped the top of his beer.

“Too many sleeping pills,” he muttered.

“What?” She demanded.

“Did I say that out loud? I must be tired. I need to rest; I have cancer, after all.”

Her porcelain face broke into teddy bear sadness. “I hope it’s not serious,” She said.

“Stage 4. I’ve got six months left to live, if I’m lucky.”

Tears rolled into her eyes like waves. Why was it that women wanted him dead when he was alive, but when he was dying, they couldn’t bear the thought?

Solving their mystery was worthwhile; it was unfathomable, the type of hard case that confounds a detective until he realizes some mysteries are not meant to be solved.

Gregson sipped his beer and looked out the window at the blue Atlantic. It was always moving. His eyes were heavy. He slept for hours, passing over jungles, long-forgotten ruins, major cities, and the Brazil beach dancing with babes.

We will begin our descent in 20 minutes…

Gregson woke up and buckled his seat-belt. He felt oddly calm, it was his psychic sense reaching out into the world with an eye for things that can’t be seen and suddenly, he knew he was being watched. Somebody was on the plane with similar business; the red flower was many things to many different people; its fragrance was life and wealth and beauty.

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