Notes from the Back Table

Personal fragments, process notes, field writing, dream cards, reflections

The carpetmen
Don Parker Don Parker

The carpetmen

You could hear the hum of the lights in the ceiling, an old, electric sigh that filled the room like breath held too long. The men at the back had stopped talking. Their shoes made no sound on the linoleum, though you could see their reflections, faint and wrong, wavering in the glass of the boot cabinet.

The old man’s hands trembled on the counter, not from fear but from fatigue, like a clock winding down. You thought about saying something, a hello, a how’ve you been, but the words caught in your throat. The air was too thick with waiting.

One of the carpetmen smiled then, a slow, deliberate curve that didn’t reach his eyes. His teeth were perfect. Too perfect. You realised they weren’t smiling at you. They were smiling at the inevitable.

Somewhere deep in the shop, a door creaked open on its own.

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