The painting had fallen. Loose. Hook. A woman's face looked up. It was a face I was familiar with from its inception. I was not the artist. Nor the art. I had seen the work before. Somewhere. Then it was with me. Some said it was me. I knew it was not. The yellow hair was not meant to be blonde. It was just yellow. Like an egg hatched midair. Strands, like feathers, flew away from face. The happiness of yellow did not change the mood. The woman wanted something. Somewhere. Was she me? Her eyes were searching. But they were too small. Or narrowed? I often wanted to slap her.
The painting had fallen. I touched the glass at the edges. It peeled. Did glass peel? It was cellophane. It let me see through. The wood of the frame was intact. I thought I’d scratch out the cover. It bled. Or I did. It was not cellophane. Not the whole at least. The cellophane was just to keep everything in place – the yellow, the wood, the glass, the woman, her hair, her eyes, her mouth painted black, half open as though she had just exhaled or said something silent. Whispered. I slapped her. Red on palms.
The painting had fallen. Someone managed to break the glass. There is no wall between us now. The yellow does not reflect light, her eyes do not fake a gleam, and lips do not glisten. I have placed her behind a door, half visible. She is matte and dry.
The painting had fallen. She was never me. Or mine.