BOX by Mark Stocker (2nd place, Flash, Nov22)

At five, he tumbled into the box. It smelled of possibility. The floor was thick with things to dress up in, people to become. He lifted a fireman’s helmet, pressed a doctor’s stethoscope to his chest. There was so much choice. In the corner, he spied a cowboy hat with a broad, curled brim. The fit wasn’t perfect, but he liked the feel of it on his head. Rummaging, he found a waistcoat, a neckerchief and a sheriff’s badge. He clambered out and saw in the mirror: a law enforcer, handsome and brave. If this didn’t get him noticed, nothing would. He spun a pistol into his holster and swaggered off to save the day.

At seventeen, he slumped against the box but refused to get in. He reached over the side and fetched things out one by one. The choices were mostly unappealing – bold colours, branded shirts, clean lines. He wanted something that would make a statement, quietly. He raked his fringe across his face, pushed an earring into his left lobe, felt its tiny crucifix swing. He squeezed into a pair of tight jeans, buckled a pair of boots and slid on a dark coat that stretched to his ankles. The figure in the mirror was troublesome and he liked that. Sparking a freshly rolled cigarette, he sloped off to make some kind of stand.

At thirty, he woke early, anxiety pricking his insides. He got into the box and put on the morning suit that was laid out on the floor. The tails felt foreign, the pressed trousers stiff. He wondered how this had come to be the costume of commitment. Would it help him to be the right man? Buttonhole, cravat, a pocket square to match. He fastened his cufflinks and checked his reflection. Assured that he looked the part, he strode off to have and to hold.

At fifty-five, he climbed wearily into the box. It smelled of profit and loss. An array of suits hung around its cracked walls – charcoals, greys, blues – all too big, none stitched with him in mind. Reflecting on the shape in the mirror, he marvelled at how he had come this far and fooled so many. Knotting his tie and smoothing the whisps of his hair, he shuffled off to do someone else’s business.

At seventy, he lowered himself into the box. It was empty, and smelled of opportunities missed. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and let it slide away. He twisted the gold band from his left hand and watched it drop. He unbuckled his boots, stubbed out his cigarette, surrendered his pistol and his badge. He shed all his clothing, all the accoutrements, every mask he’d ever worn, one after another. Naked, he stepped out to examine himself in the mirror, and saw there was no one there.