The Adventures of the Lady in the Painting 

The lady is in the painting. She is both the lady in the painting and the painting itself.   

Inside the mind of the lady in the painting, she knows she is propped up on a counter and not hanging on a wall. She’s not so good with this fact. At least she is in a fine-fitting frame, she thinks. But still, why is she not displayed proudly on a wall in a dining room where passers-by might gaze upon her. She doesn’t get the counter-thing. And what is this dreadful place anyway?  

The painting of the lady was once in a gallery. She remembers how that made her feel esteemed. She was well lit, and there, men and women would come quite close to her, intently meeting the eyes of the woman in the painting, her own. Oh, she relished the attention. She looked back out at them. She would cross her legs one way, and then the other, not disturbing the painting because it featured her from the bosom up. The rest of her could do what it pleased. She feels right in the green dress, how well it must have been captured by the painter.  

She can’t see the back of the painting to know what the painting’s title is. She could hazard a guess, “Sophisticated Woman in Green Looking Out,” she imagines. Nor can she make out the painter’s signature, having to read it backwards, and from her perspective it’s so far down in the corner there.  Oh, I am certain the artist is someone of quality, she thinks. 

If she cannot lower her expectations, then she must continue to bite her lip, figuratively speaking, and wait out this current situation until someone with some sense comes along and sees fit to relocate the painting with the lady in it. She hopes for a brightly lit place, someplace not so dreary, nor damp, for the paper inside the back of the frame is starting to buckle.