The Painting
Mirabelle Jagoe looked at the full length portrait in the museum gallery.
Looked and
longed.
She visited
Halstead Von Bischoff at least once a week, twice when it was late opening once
a month.
He returned
her gaze, proud and haughty as if daring her to love him
Sometimes
when she gazed at him long enough she almost saw a twinkle in his eye.
An
acknowledgement. An ignition. An invitation.
And she
thrilled as she imagined her life with him.
Centuries
breached and forgotten, lifetimes almost touching.
The man who
would leave her with nothing left to want
A master of
horseback, masterful in the bed chamber
An
unstoppable force of nature.
At home at
night, she began dressing for him
Long flowing
dresses with empire waists and satin trim
She studied
intricate 18th century hairstyles on the internet
And
practiced talking with her eyes in mirrors
She stopped
going to work
It became hard
to remember the city boy who broke her heart
That
insignificance of a man from whom she first sought distraction in galleries
Von Bischoff
began to meet her in her dreams each night
And implored
her to steal his painting before it could be relegated to the gallery basement for
another eighty years
He had a fine
ship chartered for her.
They would
sail away to the New World and start a new life
Her chance
came. She noticed his room unattended one afternoon in the last hour of
opening.
She walked
towards the painting until for the first time she could actually touch it.
Trembling as
the alarms went off she grabbed at the edges but before she knew it a muscular
arm reached out, drew her into the painting and Von Bischoff wrapped his cloak
around her.
Gallery
staff rushed in to find Von Bischoff smiling broadly as he held a glowing
Mirabelle, her golden locks spilling over the edge of his cloak.
Her coat and
bag lay abandoned in front of the rope barrier.
They would
never take his portrait down now.
©LS King
No comments:
Post a Comment