一頁紙愛的故事——素描
暮色漸沉鞭光，一位老街頭畫家弓著身子美尸，對著素描板而坐损晤。天馬上就要黑了堡掏，她的臉龐為暮色所遮掩生巡，僅能看清一圈輪廓艰亮。我們本來打算去巴黎圣母院炒事，但當她在河岸碼頭上看到這位老人時幔托，我們停了下來。老人坐在一張小凳子上埋心，面前是一副搖搖欲墜的畫架指郁，橋邊的石墻上掛著他的畫作，在獵獵的寒風中飄搖拷呆。
“我想要一幅”闲坎，她說。
“圣母院天黑以后就關了吧”茬斧，我回應道腰懂。
“應該來得及的”，她微笑著說项秉。
用了將近一個小時绣溜，老人呈現(xiàn)了一幅令人驚艷的肖像畫。炭筆完美描繪出了她的臉龐娄蔼，高高的顴骨和微撅的嘴唇生動地躍然紙上怖喻。他甚至捕捉到了她眼眸中流轉的那抹華光，盡管在初冬料峭的寒風中耐心坐著不動并不是一件舒適的事岁诉。
我們沒來得及去圣母院锚沸，后來去了一家爵士樂酒吧，一邊喝紅酒一邊靜待晨曦涕癣。
我不知道那幅畫現(xiàn)在在哪兒哗蜈，那幅咱倆許多年前在巴黎偶得的素描。也許還在你那兒坠韩，你把它裝進相框距潘，和你的結婚照掛在一起，旁邊還有你兒女的照片只搁。也許你把它束之高閣音比，壓在那些塵封了的相冊下面，就像咱倆那段時光的其他痕跡一樣氢惋。
最好的時光往往是那些被偷走的時光硅确，不一定是被誰，但生活卻是那個賊明肮。身歷其中，猶如置身虛幻缭付，仿佛你小小地耍了緣分一把柿估，雖然在漫漫人生中只有那么幾分鐘，但就在這幾分鐘陷猫，你感覺主宰了自己的命運秫舌。然后的妖，幾年過去了，幾十年過去了足陨，不管這中間發(fā)生了什么嫂粟，那段時光總能刻骨銘心的使你無法釋懷，仿佛擁有它本身就是命中注定的墨缘。不管當時看來是多么瑣碎渺小的一件事星虹，驀然回首，細咂其中的韻味镊讼，它卻是你生命中最珍貴的一段時光宽涌。那個冬日，塞納河畔蝶棋，正是這么一段時光卸亮。
后來我還會想起那位老街頭畫家。有多少臉龐被他付諸于紙上玩裙？有多少記憶永存在他筆下兼贸？又有多少瞬間被他轉換成了永恒？
原文：
One Page Love Story - The Sketch?
by Adam Stanley
In the fading light, the old street-artist hunched over his sketch pad. It was almost dark, and the contours of her face were only visible in shadow. We had planned on visiting Notre Dame, but when she saw the old man on the quay that runs along the river, sitting on a little stool in front of a shaky looking easel, surrounded by his windblown gallery of chalk drawings that were hanging on the rock wall beside the bridge, we stopped.
“I want one,” she said.
“Notre Dame probably closes at dark,” I answered.
“We might could still make it,” she said, and smiled.
He finished in about an hour, and it was an amazing portrait. Her face was flawless, the high cheekbones and slightly pouting lips rendered perfectly in charcoal. The early winter wind was brisk and cold, and he had even been able to capture that glassy looks in her eyes as she sat patiently, though uncomfortable, trying not to move.
We never made it to the tour of the cathedral. Instead, we went to a jazz bar and drank red wine until daylight.
I don't know where it is now, the charcoal sketch of your face that we got in Paris many years ago. Maybe you have it, and you framed it and put it on the wall beside your wedding photo, and photos of your children. It could be hidden away in the top of some closet, beneath the picture albums that you no longer look at, like all of the other evidence of our time together.
The best moments are those moments that feel like they have been stolen, not necessarily from someone else, but from life itself. At the time, it feels as if it were not supposed to happened, that you have somehow fooled fate, and changed your destiny, if only for a few minutes out of a lifetime. But later, maybe years, may be decades in the future, no matter what happened after, that moment always stands out as something that was meant to be. And no matter how trivial or insignificant it may seem, because it meant something once, it was, in hindsight one of the most important moment of your life. That cold day, down by the Seine, was one of those moments.
I sometime wonder what happened to that old street-artist. I wonder how many other faces he has drawn? How many other memories he has made real forever? How many other moments has he turned into eternity.
