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He wanted to push a hook up his nose and pull the grey mucus of his brain out through his nostrils. Henry leaned one shoulder up against the wall. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the cool brick, breathing out slowly. He wanted to press knitting needles into his temples until they met behind his eyes. Henry had a headache.

A gust of wind coming down the street threatened to put Henry?s hair into disarray so he gave up on his bus and ducked into a caf?. He wouldn?t be of any use at the office anyway, Henry justified to himself. He worked at a pharmaceutical company pushing very important papers, which is hard to do well when one has a headache. It was the kind of headache that made him sweat behind his ears and between his toes. Henry ordered a coffee with one palm dramatically open across his forehead. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose where it met his brow and carried the drink to and empty two-person table by the window. Henry sat awkwardly on the short plastic caf? stool, which was too small for his long bony frame. He winced at the light from the tall window, wishing he could blot out the sun to let his aching eyes rest.

Henry took the cover off of his coffee and carefully poured in three Sweet & Lows and an extra thimble of cream. He had the impulse to splash the burning coffee up into his face. It would distract him from the throbbing of his frontal lobe. It would be a good, clean, crisp shock of pain, unlike the swampy weight of the ache inside his head. Instead he drank it quickly, but soon enough for it to scorch his insides and distract him a little.

Henry took out a pen and drew a paper napkin from the dispenser on the lonely table next to his. He wrote a note.

Dear honey, it read, if you are reading this, it means that I have finally died of a brain aneurism. Don?t feel guilty, because even though this headache that has killed me is surely your fault, it won?t do for you to be moping around all the time. Love, your dead husband Henry.