In his wallet was a picture. It measured one inch by three-quarters. He thought it was an illustration of Mozart but he never really knew. Maybe Haydn.
He took it from a frame. An arts and home kind of store. He was with his girlfriend for the weekend. They had lunch, she was looking at interesting coasters, she had to leave soon. The composer caught his eye and he felt he had to have it. He didn't even like Mozart.
That was ten years ago. The composer rests in front of his license, looking through the plastic. He has gotten wet and dried many times. One day the wallet will be open and he will be gone. It can be forgotten that something has still happened even when it has vanished.
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