A Face in the Crowd
The Solipsist arrived at the soiree in his finest suit—gray herringbone, ruby cufflinks, pressed white shirt. Everyone was eager to greet him. They shook his hand and stood by him while the press took their photographs for the evening post. He raised a glass and looked out at the faces of the crowd, the same faces, years of the same faces—he was no longer surprised by anything. Sparkling coupes tinked high in the air as he gave his speech. But he cut himself short. In the back by the baby carrots and celery sticks—a face he'd never seen, of a stern set, eyes without color and lips that wouldn't waver. A face alive and breathing by its own authority. The coupe fell from his hand and broke on a yellow woven flower. He felt something tugging at the back of his neck—a fine strand of hair or wire—and realized suddenly, even after all these years to the contrary, it was he that did not exist.
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