4
“I’m getting old,” Daniel peeved at the dusty mirror as he scraped a straight razor over the steely whiskers jutting from his chin’s narrow bones. The day was a newborn, all pale yellow and rose: a pretty bonnet on a shitting, screaming nightmare. Anton grunted noncommittally in his direction, inwardly awash with nausea. Why didn’t he worry about age? He had read once that knowledge of one’s mortality was what separated humans from animals. Had he come to terms with his own in a way which precluded ever-present concern for the approach of death? Or was it that living as he did—by the sword, so to speak—made his own end seem too close to contemplate, like words on a page too close to one’s face. Did those blurry passages spell out anything of import? Anton did not believe so.
He finally spoke: ” ‘It’s no use reminding yourself daily that you are mortal: it will be brought home to you soon enough’,” and his deliberate drawl made it sound like a threat. Daniel didn’t notice, however. Anton was a brute who demanded simply watchfulness and control. “Camus, I believe,” Daniel murmured. And how about that, he thought. Some assumptions clearly required revisiting. Unrattled, he returned to his shaving, only to nick his cheek. Daniel swore under his breath and snatched up a cloth to hold to the cut. As the blood bloomed on the handkerchief’s surface, his eyes met Anton’s in the mirror. Too hastily, he looked away. Something was shifting.
