Her name was Gladys Melbourne and she was crying. We were sitting together in my office, with the door closed. Outside, the street sounds came through my partially open window. A particularly loud Harley rumbled by so loudly that the fillings in my teeth nearly rattled out. Gladys ignored the Harley. She was looking away and wiping tears from her high cheekbones. Women crying in my presence wasn't something new to me, and so I calmly waited it out. Meanwhile, my natural shyness to people in general prevented me from saying the soothing words she no doubt needed to hear. I waited. She buried her face in both hands. I looked at the ceiling and sat back in the chair, and silently wished I could find it within me to say something, anything. She continued crying. Outside, a street person yelled something. I thought I recognized the voice. I knew most of the street people. When I'm feeling generous, especially when work is steady, I usually gave abundantly to the local homeless. A bird squawked outside my window. I was sure it was a crow, although it could have been a raven. I wasn't sure which was which, although both struck upon some primal fear within me. Perhaps in a past life I had my eyes pecked out by such a bird. A black, soulless, pitiless bird. Gladys's shoulders quaked. A tissue appeared in her hands. She used it to dab