Sophia Shearwood

Used-to-be-Arthur and the little black book.

It was quarter past three on a Thursday afternoon, and Arthur was dead at his table in his usual diner. Surprisingly, for the fact that he was (emphasis on past tense) an otherwise healthy forty-six year old, it took two hours for anyone to discover that he was no longer as healthy as he had been. And when someone did, it was not the someone Arthur might have hoped for it to be. It was not, as Arthur may have wanted, a paramedic. Or even a member of the faux-jovial staff that always pretended to remember his face.