Amélie Mauresmo is on the edge of the bed, hunched over an
old photo album. She tentatively caresses the tattered leather of the cover. Is
that a shudder to be detected in her broad, muscular back? She screws up her
eyes, wringing out young tears. There is a sharp intake of breath as she
wrestles both with her better judgement and the album’s fiddly little clasp.
She hasn’t noticed you standing in the doorway and now lays
the open book out on her lap and gulps another nervous breath. The tension is
getting to you – you’ve remained motionless so long and you feel the need to
fidget. Meanwhile Amélie has leafed through a few pages, thick with memories –
old rackets, lost relatives. You shuffle and the sound of your still-wet duffle
coat on the doorframe shakes Amélie from her revelry. She turns around, shocked
eyes open wide. The album is slammed shut and tossed to the side.
‘What’s wrong?’ You ask.
‘Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.’ She says sharply,
turning to the window. You can see her reflection is wet with tears.
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