Mona Lisa

It was the time of day when the lights began to flicker outside The Louvre but I did not care. I would hurry. I needed to see her. One last time.

I walked as quickly as possible, past the Three Sisters Playing Chest, Bonheur, The Laughing Cavalier and The Four Apostles as they did not interest me today.

As I entered her gallery, an ominous feeling of dread washed over me as I stood and faced the empty glass. How could this be? She, of all the masterpieces, gone? It made no sense.

And then I spotted her, a girl really, scurrying towards the exit. Heavy black muslin skirts clinging to her thighs. Her soft, chestnut-brown hair, bound for centuries, flowing freely down the corridor. She giggled, I smiled; signaling I would never tell.

Then she was gone, lost to the ages and my recollection. Back home to her Leonardo, I suppose. Same enigmatic smile upon her face.