The sticky film of decade old dust covers glass once clean and shining. Peering from their veil are the product of hours of passion. Nature layered on nature; leaves poignant in their simplicity mate with a shimmering gauze of garden vistas, which in turn surrender themselves to the vibrance of a single perfect flower. Shy they hide, as they always have, like ancient denizens of a harem that, having been chosen for exquisite beauty in their youth, retain a relentless grace the years cannot tear away. Plywood walls are obscured beneath these lost and wistful lovelies, captured in frames broken and cheap. Their master holds them close to his heart. There will be no more.
Our artist haunts the 12 by 20 square feet of this last small refuge during the few hours gleaned from an otherwise sterile and forced life. Like a thief he looks furtively around before opening the padlock. What he fears, he could not say.
His comfortable wife, hums unconsciously to herself, reading a romance novel while stirring dinner. There is little time between the crunching of gravel under his tires as he comes home from work, and the call to the supper table. There he must acknowledge his wife's skilled touch with spices and judge the consistency of the vegetables. It would be thoughtless to let her efforts go without praise.
But for now he is bathing in the tranquil smell of old paint and mediums. Loosening his tie, he sighs. Like a young man entering the bedroom of his lover, his face relaxes into a sly smile. But this fades softly, like the lingering death of a sunset. A canvas, yellowed and empty, whispers mournfully in the evening air. Walking to the work bench, he shifts wrinkled tubes of colors long dried beyond hope. A quick glance at the despised clock beyond the easel tells him there is no time to do more than open the book lying beside his chair. He would return after dinner, but there are chores to do, and an early meeting at work tomorrow. There is a pain in his chest as he drops the wasted paint in a wastebasket half full of deteriorated supplies.
Sweeping the room with eyes that burn from too many hours spent before a computer screen, he stops at the glimpse of black wool flannel. Stooping carefully he pulls his beret from its hiding place under the book shelf. Dusty and crumpled, it retains an unworn stiffness. Flapping it against his hand, he sneezes. Once. Twice. Setting it on top of the bookshelf he turns away as his wife calls to him from the back door. He thought it had been lost.