Israel.

His long, pale fingers loosely gripped the styrofoam cup that held his now lukewarm caramel macchiato. So intent was he on the newspaper article in front of him that he didn't notice as the cup slipped from his hands and the coffee proceeded to bleed out onto the table, his newspaper, and the adjoining synthetic seat. Startled, he quickly jumped up and inched his way over the ever-growing sugary puddle. He walked to the counter nervously to ask the attending waitress for a few napkins. Humbly, he made his way back to his seat and began to mop up the sweet mess, standing only when the last drop was eradicated.



Pushing his long, dark hair away from his face and behind his ears, he slid his way back onto the spidery, cracked, green plastic booth and resumed his article. It concerned a Czechoslovakian man whom had been killed by his mother. He had left the country to seek fortune and family, and years later, returned with both. To surprise them, he concealed his identity from his mother and sister, parading his great wealth before them. In the night, they beat him to death with a hammer in order to rob him. When his wife revealed his identity in her frantic search for him, his mother hanged herself and his sister drowned herself in a well.




Israel looked up from his article and sighed slightly to himself. His affections were not squandered on society, this much he knew. He was almost ashamed of the world he inhabited. But, then again, what did any of it matter? People died all the time. It was the paradox of life: the only sure thing was death. Nothing mattered. Even he, himself, didn't matter. He was just another insect, walking around anonymously, colliding into other (just as anonymous) insects, just hoping not to get pushed down. Once we're gone who's going to care that we were ever here at all?





He pulled himself out of his mind and glanced at his watch. 11:30. He had to be in class in fifteen minutes. He meticulously folded what was left of the least damp parts of his newspaper and slid it into his bag, standing to make his way out of the café. In doing so, he tripped slightly on the chair leg jutting out into the aisle next to the booth he had previously occupied. A dark man, typing furiously on his laptop and staring intently at the screen, looked up at him austerely as if to chastise him for this interruption of his cogitation. Israel put his head down and mumbled an apology, shuffling quickly in the opposite direction. It was no matter. Nothing was. He paused, looking behind him a final time at the man and his laptop. Smiling slightly to himself, he turned around and proceeded to make his descent into oblivion.