The Sketch

A couple of years ago, I watched a short film which has refused to let itself out of my mind. Its title and accolades - for it was a winning entry of some film festival - I don't recall, but it remains as though my mind was the camera the artist used. On second thought, the film could have been called "The Sketch".

My adaptation.


A woman is standing in an underground train heavy with the evening crowd. Her body – forty-year-old virginity – is wrapped in a brown autumn coat. All is quiet, save the mechanical breathing of the industrious beast.

With a sudden burst of unexplained spontaneity, a lanky young man picks himself out of the inertia and stands up. He clears his throat hesitantly. “My name is Serge Durand. I am thirty-three this year. I am looking for a nice woman to share my life with.”

The crowd raises a collective eyebrow; the woman fights to keep a commuter’s necessary poker face on.

The man goes on. “ She can be fifty, or eighteen, I don’t mind – I believe what’s important is the heart. All women are beautiful, and I am hoping that one of you beautiful women will make me a very lucky man.”

“I am a good man,” he adds as an afterthought. Someone lets out a chortle, not unkindly. Encouraged, he continues, “ I can cook and help with the housework. I can whip up a mean pasta! I work in a photocopy shop and earn a comfortable 1,200 euros a month. And I do not have any STDs.” The crowd laughs. The woman smiles, but drops her eyes.

The sparkle in his eyes softens a tad as he reaches up to mess his curly mop in boyish habit. “My fiancée died three years ago, and I’ve been single ever since. Now I think I am ready to move on. And if any of you ladies believe in love and romance, I will be waiting for you on the next platform.”

The train pulls into the next station. Her grip on her handbag tightens, then loosens in the wetness of her palm. The doors open. She springs out.




Nobody joins her. No charming, thirty-three year old with sparkling eyes and curly brown hair leaves the train. The doors begin to close. The young man scrambles towards her, “Madame, Madame! I’m so sorry – it was only a sketch!”

The doors close. His hands press a pasty green onto the glass. From the corner of her eye, she sees another man in the same carriage folding up his video camera.

The young man’s eyes now sparkle a bit too brightly. His lips, speeding away, mouth the words “It’s not real”. And the train pulls out of the platform.