Fred Aiken Writing

I’m the man that died in a coffee shop. No one noticed. I think it might have been a stroke, but I’m not quite sure. I was never well-acquainted with the mechanics of my body. I knew what I liked, what I didn’t; everything else was immaterial, or so I thought.

But what’s most insulting is I died and no one called emergency personnel. They just let me sit there for weeks, glossing over me like it didn’t matter. Then decomposition settled in, and no amount of roasted coffee beans could veil the stench. I was a coffee break ornament.