Dressed in a long, glossy black skirt, black boots, and a hooded black rain coat, she shuffled in slowly. Her steps made no sounds. A little bent forward, white, with wire rim glasses, she looked straight ahead.
She looks like death, he thought.
Turning, she looked at him, raised a black-gloved finger at him, and smiled. She is death, he realized. The scene changed. Instead of being at a coffee shop table typing on a computer, he was squirming and shaking against the shock of being born.
Great, he thought back in the other moment, guessing that he was going to endure a this-is-your-life montage before dying.
That was probably going to take a while.
He wished he had more coffee.
Michael Seidel, writer 
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