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Mounawar Abbadouchi: 'The City of Mirrors' and 'The Old Mousseline'

City of Mirrors

The streets are empty but you are not alone as you make your way through the maze of buildings reflecting silvery light off of their glassy surfaces. Next to you walks a stranger with silent steps. You look right, he looks left; you look away and he ignores you. Your startled face stares at a grinning one with teeth like gleaming pearls. You turn the corner but there you find him standing in front of you. Dead end. When were there so many buildings? You squeeze through a narrow alley onto a deserted square. You seem to have lost him; he is nowhere to be seen. You turn around, relieved, only to see him standing there with that same grin on his face and that same malice in his eye. You look around and you notice for the first time the city’s nocturnal populace: silent figures that walk without echoing footsteps in the dead night. Old men are infants, infants are villains, lovers are beggars, beggars are kings. And there he stands grinning, waiting. You spin around and run without looking back in the mirror.

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The Old Mousseline

It hung cold on its hanger, the light beige garment. It had not hugged the waist or kissed the curves in nearly 30 years. Where the bosom would have once been were small dark stains, collected by time. The flowy material smelled like the wood of the wardrobe and dust. How many occasions this mousseline must have attended, how many conversations it must have had, how many heads it must have turned when it entered a room, and how many hearts it must have teased standing there, cocktail glass in ring-adorned hand, its delicate hips swaying to the sound of some slow tune. Taken out of its dusty wardrobe, the old material breathed for the first time in years.

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