Greenwich Village
Early Thursday afternoon is not exactly hte peak of activity on the streets of Greenwich Village. This, does not, however mean that the streets are exactly abandonned. There is simply some room to walk without being elbowed in a rib. Rebecca Reed shuffles along the street fairly miserably. Her eyes are red, her face more pale than her usual gothic look allows for. Her nose is a little red from so much attendance of tissues in the last couple of days. Both hands are tucked into the pockets of her draping leather coat as she walks along, sniffling every third stride.
Emma steps out of a little hole int he wall artist's boutique, paying more attention to pulling on her gloves and the ridiculous price she'd just paid for a sculpture than the crowds, or lack there of.
And it is as Emma Frost emerges from that boutique that Beckah crosses her path. Unfortunately for the dignity of both involved, it is at that precise moment that the dreadlocked woman's body decides it is time to attack. The assault comes not in the form of weapons, nor telepathy, nor flying fists. It is an attack of the sinuses. Beckah sneezes. On Emma.
Ew. /This/ is why mingling with the plebes is always a bad idea. Emma hops back a step, flinging her hands wide and staring down at the front of her coat in disgust. "I beg your /pardon/," she snaps, nose wrinkled.
Beckah winces horribly at realizing that this particular sneeze had an innocent victim. She tries to apologize, and only ends up coughing for a moment. "Sorry," she finally manages, words uttered by a voice made hoarse by an unfair amount of coughing lately. "I uh... yeah, sorry." She smiles apologetically, an expression made mroe pitiful by how obviously sick the woman is.
"Yes, you are," Emma replies snidely, answering the unspoken implication of the other manifestations of the woman's illness. "Perhaps you would would be better off at home and in bed than wandering the streets and apologizing for contaminating half the City."
Beckah points in the direction she was headed, "S'where I'm going," she says, the opening of the statement made indistinct and almost childish by a sniffle and a wipe at her nose with the back of a sleeve. "Sorry," she mutters one more time, and she starts once more on her way. She has her head lowered, dreadlocks hanging limply around her face as she shuffles, not even feeling good enough to bother lifting her boots off of the sidewalk as she goes.
Emma shudders at the sleeve wipe and turns her face away with a roll of her eyes. "Then by all means, do not let me hinder you." She waits until Beckah has moved out of her path toward her waiting car before stepping forward and muttering under her breath, "Typhoid Mary..."