Yasmine walked out into the grey Parisian drizzle. Omar was on the steps, lighting a cigarette.
“Excuse me, madame the Consul,” Omar said, his voice raspy. “I am here for my own procuration . My son in Montreal needs to sell my taxi permit.” He paused, looking at Yasmine’s panicked face. “But perhaps I can help this girl.” procuration consulat maroc
Yasmine checked her phone for the tenth time. She had taken a day off from her marketing job in La Défense to be here. Behind the thick glass doors of the consulate, the line snaked forward like a tired serpent. She clutched a green folder containing her father’s passport, her own ID, and the procuration forms. Yasmine walked out into the grey Parisian drizzle