Whenthe police come andtaketh e gi r ...l

you are standing still on the driveway, just watching. The policeman next to you is trying to ask you some questions. You see that he is a younger man, much younger than you, and that his voice sounds eager—too eager to find out about the boy and the girl. You look down on this young policeman immensely—how little he knows about the world!

The girl has not made a sound. She does not even uncurl from her position in the chair. Two burly policemen carry her, still curled, to the car. The policemen carrying the girl have a deflecting look in their eye, they try not to look at the girl as they are carrying her, and when their eyes do fall on her, some -

They have already taken the boy away. They told you that he had already been dead, that there was nothing you could have done, that you did the right thing, and thank you so much for your bravery and keeping so calm. This is funny, you think, so you chuckle, and all the policemen around you—especially the young man—look at you suspiciously. What’s so funny about all this he asks you. You ignore him and walk towards the spot where the boy was on the driveway. Maybe one day the young policeman will understand, but probably not.

The Rot hko driveway is splattered with blood, in more than one spot now because they had not done a good job at moving the boy. Now, you thought, it would not be fitting to call it a Rothko. It would be more like a Jackson Pollock. Yes, that was it. How fitting it was for a Monday afternoon, you think to yourself.