It is late in the day.  Fazil Fahri stands in

his store, his hands clasped behind him, waiting.  Like a

character in a play, waiting for the plot point.  The

action that will motivate his next move.  But there is

nothing.  No stage direction.  No dialogue.  The rug merchant moves

to the window.  He looks at the sidewalk below.  People

move about.  In contrast, Fazil Fahri feels so solitary and

so still, as though he may be fading away.  He

wonders if this happens, sometimes.  If a person is so

totally alone and inconsequential that he simply ceases to exist.

_______________________________________

Paraphrases from the novel The Rug Merchant by Meg Mullins.

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