He'll Miss Me When I'm Gone.

Very little happens at my kitchen table. Toast, jam, coffee...lots of coffee. I usually make it through my morning paper in twenty minutes, most of that time spent on the headlines and the human interest stuff. The sports pages and the business section go into the trash unread. Sometimes I scan the pictures in the obits to see if anybody I know fell off the perch. So far, they've all been strangers. Imagine my surprise when I saw my own picture, and not a very flattering one, three quarters down the first column.
At least I died of natural causes, I thought, scanning the brief paragraph under my name. Which had been spelled wrong in so many ways. Well, Mary Evans is a tough one, I thought generously. Donations going to a bank account at Wells Fargo. For my burial, of course. Flowers, a nice coffin, a great plot at the most expensive bone yard in town. Very considerate of my darling ex-husband, whose bank account number I recognized immediately.
Fortunately, I still have access. I hear Palm Springs is nice this time of year. He'll miss me when I'm gone.
192 Words.