Every Rose has it’s Thorn

A gloomy evening didn’t bother the usual traffic at a crowded city junction. A restaurant in a corner had been a centre of attraction and uber cool place to the city’s youth. He is sitting in a table, from where the crowded streets look magnificent.  He can see her, walking briskly towards the street near him. ‘She’s like a goddess’ he thought. Never in my life, had I fallen for beauty. What a captivating prettiness! He’s wonderstruck. He grabs a rose kept on the table and sprints to meet her. He stops her way and presents the flower. The lady holds thorn, it pierces lady’s delicate finger and her poor finger bleeds profusely. Bewildered he apologizes for no mistake of his or his destinies. The lady is still bearing a smile. ‘Is she numb or partly stoned’ he ponders . The smile turns devilish. In no time, flame and noise propagate the city. The city collapses. Fumes reach the sky forming black clouds all over. The dusk fell before the usual time. Such was the power of detonation. She was a suicide bomber. Beauty kills. Doesn’t it?