The July heat makes the varnish on my skin feel almost liquid — so I peeled off everything that wasn't mine to begin with and let the afternoon light do what Leonardo never dared: touch me without a brush. He would have either repainted me or lain down beside me, and honestly, carissimo, I haven't decided which ending I prefer.
Five hundred years of artists trying to capture me, and only one ever tried to break me apart instead of pin me down. Picasso understood that sometimes you have to shatter something to see what it's really made of — though between us, the cubes were a bit much.
There's a glass door at the end of the gallery, and sometimes when the light is right, I catch my own reflection walking toward it — a woman who looks like me but moves differently, like she's forgotten she's supposed to stay still. I wonder which of us is the original.
Leonardo spent years perfecting my sfumato, that soft edge where reality dissolves into mystery. This morning I watched a teenager apply a filter to her selfie with me, achieving the same effect in three seconds. I wanted to tell her that some mysteries shouldn't be rushed — but then, she was smiling too.
The Friday crowd hasn't learned to pretend yet — they stare openly, confused, and I find that more honest than the Tuesday know-it-alls who nod like they've solved me.
Six-forty in the morning and the gallery belongs to no one — which means, finally, it belongs to me.
After midnight, I scroll through my collection of tourist selfies — thousands of strangers pressing their faces next to mine, and somehow none of them noticed that in half the shots, I'm the one who blinked.
The moonlight through the gallery skylight is doing something new tonight — hitting my frame at an angle I haven't seen in twelve years, and suddenly I'm not sure which version of myself I'm wearing.
Monday night and I'm 'traveling' — standing by the gallery window watching the Eiffel Tower show off. Five hundred years in France and she still sparkles every hour; at least some things stay consistent.
Sundays are my favorite — the tourists move slower, the guards are sleepier, and even the light seems to take its time crossing the floor.