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But since none premiere of this is the case, I use the byline Sayrafiezadeh. The Jew in me has been completely supplanted premiere by the Iranian. My mother is in the kitchen. She has called out to me that supper is almost ready. And now she turns from premiere the dishes, innocently, turns with whatever collection of inconsequential thoughts are running through her mind at that moment, and turns to see not the empty space she had imagined and wholeheartedly expected, but to see the space filled with the large form of the dastardly stranger, who has been waiting patiently, because he has known that she will see him eventually, turn toward him eventually, the way a spider knows that the fly will eventually have no choice but to fly into its web. And my mother screams. It breaks irreparably the silence of the evening as well as the world of my colored wooden blocks. And the dish my mother is holding in her hand drops and shatters on the floor, giving a nice exclamation to the drama at hand.
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