The Man sits at a café table, alone, a daily fixture of inanimate anonymity, like an old wobbly chair that's just there, never used but never thrown out. Past him walks young couples, businessmen, intellectual colleagues and
decadent, hung-over youths. Past him walks employees,
sorority girls, gangs of idealistic
community college students reciting
Monty Python lines. Past him walks
style,
nipples,
opinions and
laughter. Past him walks
surges,
ebbs,
echoes:
life.
He says nothing.
He works best as nondescript: a stage backdrop that's integral to the drama but relatively unnoticed. He wears blue jeans, sneakers, a muscle shirt more for the heat than any delusions about his average arms. His back is to the wall, his face to the crowd; he drinks his coffee and watches.
Hours pass. Days. Weeks. Maybe even years. Then he stands up and looks back at the table uncertain, as if needing to collect something before he leaves, a pack of cigarettes or a set car keys - only he doesn't smoke or drive. And in that briefest moment of hesitation, he feels the emptiness (of his hands). Then his palms slide into their pockets and he patters out of the café, an empty cup on a table saying nothing about The Man once there.