Memories in a box

Noah has just arrived home.

It is a tastefully furnished flat, neat. Aseptic.

He crosses the threshold without switching on the light; the illumination from the street lamps outside, penetrating through the ajar shutters, is enough for him.

He heads for the bedroom where there is the same semi-darkness. He picks up a black box from the desk and sits on the bed. He looks at it for a moment, then opens it with care and dedication. With the usual careful movements he lays out all the contents: first a diary, then mostly photos of people of both sexes. Friends perhaps? Lovers? In many of these a red-haired woman recurs.... Memories of a lived, happy or disappointing past. Finished.

After dutifully laying everything down, like a sacred ritual, in the same sequence he puts everything back into the black box that he delicately places on the desk.

He looks up at the wall in front of him where a mirror hangs. He looks at his reflection: touching his face, he notices that he should shave.

Then he lingers on his image. He looks straight into his eyes. His expressionless look is gradually changing. He looks as if he is about to cry, or laugh. Or who knows what? A series of stifled grimaces. He puts up a resistance so as not to bring out any kind of feeling. It is an unbearable effort, more than usual this evening.

He calms the contractions of his facial muscles and returns to the same apathetic eyes as before. But this time it was different. He feels he was afraid.