Ett ögonblick.

They are beautiful drawings. One sketched of a woman with her face buried in her hands, her long hair falling forward, dramatically draped across her bosom. There is one of a girl looking out through a wet, rain-stained window where the only splat of color comes from the maroon butterfly resting on the glass. Beautiful. A pair of feet walking down a wet asphalted road. A pier and a lighthouse almost buried in water and snow, winter and cold. Dreams. A collaboration of at least seven different posters from the WWII era, a burning bus on the street. They are terrible images, drawn to extract emotion. She has succeeded. David can feel a tear in the corner of his left eye as his gaze returns to his favorite. It is the one of a small African child seated in the back of a car and as the car drives its windows reflects what must be a revolution on the outside. The child looks dangerously solemn and scared. But there are happy ones too. A man and woman kissing, a family surrounding a tree. The image of a sole child laughing was breathtaking and leaves him staring, longing to hear the laughter. A captivating one, is of the woman sitting on a shore with the huge San Francisco Bridge in the background, all buildings removed. He looks up from all the pictures and surveyes the room again. Lola must have drawn this. Does she have more? As if compelled by an outer force – usually called curiosity – he moves, searching. He opens her closet but finds only clothes. He opens the drawers of her desk without regard for her privacy but finds only hundreds of pens and brushes. The bottom drawer contains what appears to be water-colors but he is fairly sure they are not. Crayons of various kinds shows up in the most peculiar places, under the pillow, in her vase filled with dried flowers, in her underwear drawer. On her desk, of course, but also one under her carpet, one on the chair, one carefully balanced with as much as possible outside of the shelf in a light bookcase. Then, in a final act of desperation he goes down on one knee and takes a look beneath her bed, Lola’s bed. And, sure enough, as predictable as the fact that a molecule of water needed two hydrogen atoms and one of oxygen, he finds something. They are paintings, actual paintings. No discovery has ever made him quite so happy. With a ridiculous smile he pulls them out and takes a look. He has no idea of what colors had been used or why, no idea what it was produced upon or by what. Does it matter?

They are creations of beauty. The bottom one he remains with, stays with, not willing to let it lose from his sight, not even for the duration of minutes. It is impossible to tear himself away. He wants to get closer, let it crawl beneath his skin but how can he? You cannot eat a painting. A painting can never return a hug or caress your skin. He watches it and its simplicity. It sticks with him. Only when he hears noises from the hallway does he tear himself away. He should not be here. It is a fact he had overlooked. He should not be here. He has known that all along. He should not be here. He is.


tjugoförsta augusti tvåtusentio