The Bottle

Running towards a falling bottle of Bombay Blue Sapphire, mangled auto-erecting umbrella in bloody left hand and outstretched right.

It was falling from an apartment window.

It was also raining.

The wet cement emitted subtle aromas of fresh grit and cool grease in slow clouds with each darting plop.

The bottle of Bombay Blue Sapphire was almost at the zenith of its descent. The culmination of its efforts. Brit challenged his leopardian ancestry with one spring, and made contact with the bottom of the bottle just as it splintered into the pavement.

He licked the delicate tear-coloured fragments of crystal.