His bag, placed beside him, slightly open, animal, reveals fragments of a secret reality, without however revealing anything of an intimacy too legible. The modesty of a heroine. A second skin, a cloud of cedar. A diary. Her laughter rises like a puff of smoke. A perfect circle that one would like to walk around with the tip of one's finger, to realize that it has the purity of crystal. His hair is like a theatre curtain. Tied up. Then untied. Left free. The stage: his shoulder. A tie. The birth of his neck.