Greg looked like death. His eyes were sunken with dark bags beneath them, and his skin was dry and papery. He’d picked the cafe to get out of his home. Too many books there. Nothing, had more to say than a book.

Even here, he could hear the chirps of the waiter’s notes, the monotone of receipts droning away in waste bins, or the chatter of a discarded magazine. Richard’s migraine was developing a low buzzing noise.

“I’m sorry but, are you Greg Woods?”
It took him a while to realize a human was talking.
“Uhn, yeah.” he mumbled.
“I hate to impose, but, could you sign this for me? I’m a huge fan of your plays.”
Oh my but you seem interesting! said the notebook thrust before him, and it began listing off names.

Greg’s migraine became unbearable. He couldn’t even touch the book being handed to him, nor hear the girl’s question of concern. The buzzing noise had grown louder to accompany the din assaulting his mind.

Startled, he looked at his watch…

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