A man stood waiting for his coffee, running his hands along a thick rope. It was a strange sight for the patrons and baristas alike. Two women in the corner stole glances at the stoic faced, rope-gripping man in the coffee shop. Whispers of theories as to why he held that rope and stared so firmly ahead began to be heard throughout the warm, cozy space. The man was aware of the attention he drew, "I am not as frightening as a familiar face gone pale," he thought, and may have whispered, though no one heard him.
Indeed, a long lost friend, with a pale face, is far more frightening than any man with a rope. Familiar faces are to be avoided at all costs, at least that was the theory of the strange man in the cafe. He remembered a past time, a past life perhaps, in which he would avoid all familiar faces until they turned to nothing more than dust and bones. Dust and bones could belong to anyone; it is the pale faces one must avoid.
The man sat in the corner alone, hunched over due to his height. His bulging and grizzled fingers began to work on the rope, folding it in on itself, forming itself into something new. As he completed his work with the rope, a vision of his past life flashed before his eyes. The tree in the forest, alone except for one wanderer with a pale face: this is what the man saw as he placed the noose tenderly next to his coffee.
The whispers had now been replaced with a nervous hush. No one ordered. The sound of steaming milk was cut short. The patrons had left. The baristas were on their phones. The man was not dust and bones, though; as he wrapped the noose around the high hanging piece of wood, he saw the pale face in the forest. He wished he had not seen the face; he wished the face could be nothing but dust and bones. Dust can be swept away, and bones crushed. This was one of his final thoughts, as the man fell, for what felt like many silent hours. Before the snap of the noose, the man thought that he wished to be discovered as a familiar face gone pale. "Let me be the vision of other's past lives," he thought as he died.
Cafe's are far too professional to grant the man's dying wish. At the snap, sound returned to the quaint cafe. The patrons did not glance in the direction of the pale face. The barista grabbed the bag of lime in the back. He poured it around the man's table, where his flesh and bones hung. No one looked at his face, for pale faces are to be avoided. Months later, the man's skeleton was removed and thrown in the trash. The dust of his flesh was swept up. The noose remained. The cafe thought it added an artful aesthetic.
