Free Starry Nights by Daisy Whitney

admission that maybe she likes me too. “Anytime, any day,” I say, though I know it would be impossible. She may be real, but she’s still painted.
    â€œShow me more.”
    I do, and an hour or so later, she has seen haystacks and operas, mirrors and pheasants, doctors and patients. “You love them all,” she says to me when we stop near her gallery. It’s almost midnight, and I hate that I have to go home.
    I nod. “Yes. I do.”
    She asks me another question. “You’ve been coming to see me, haven’t you?”
    â€œDid you see me? Could you see me?”
    â€œYou’re the first thing I’ve been able to see or hear on the other side of the frame,” she says with both frustration and relief in her voice. “I saw you in that room. You heard me, right?”
    â€œYes,” I say, flashing back to Bonheur’s house.
    â€œI wanted to come out sooner.” There is so much longing in her voice. Longing for what could have been? For the years she missed? She moves closer to me, so we’re both leaning against the wall, inches apart. “As soon as I saw you, I tried to get out. It was the closest I’ve ever come to getting out until now.”
    â€œI’m glad you’re able to come out now.”
    â€œMe too. You’re so different from anyone I’ve ever met. You asked questions about me. You talked to me.”
    She is so straightforward, and it is an immense turn-on. Who was that Jenny from Pittsburgh? I don’t remember. I don’t care. There’s never been another girl I’ve wanted as far as I can tell in this second.
    â€œâ€˜What are you like, girl behind the paint?’ That’s what you asked me.”
    â€œYou remember,” I say. I’m sure she’s some sort of enchantress, and she has put me completely under her spell. “Who are you?”
    â€œI told you my name. I’m just a sixteen-year-old girl.”
    â€œNo.
Who
are you?”
    Her gaze dances away and then back at me as she grins. “Julien, do you want me to tell you
everything
about me on our first …” Her voice trails off, as if she doesn’t know the word. “What do you call it these days?”
    â€œUm, date? First date?” I offer, hoping that maybe she sees it the same way.
    â€œFirst date. Why, yes. I like the sound of that. And are visits to the museum good first dates?”
    â€œI would have to say this particular visit to the museum has been my favorite date.”
    â€œAnd for me as well.”
    I feel wobbly, but I manage to hang on to ask another question. “Where have you been for the last century?”
    She points to the gallery where her gilded frame rests. “On the other side of that painting.”
    We walk back. “What’s on the other side?”
    â€œTulips and hollyhocks, pansies and irises.” Her voice is pure, her French is impeccable, but she doesn’t have the accent of a native.
    â€œYou don’t sound like you’re from here.”
    â€œYou doubt my French?” She places a palm against her chest, as if I’ve offended her.
    â€œMaybe a little.”
    â€œDo you think I’m French?”
    â€œI don’t know what you are. Or who you are. Tell me where you’re from,” I ask, seized by curiosity, by the thirst to know her more.
    She shakes her head. “Come back tomorrow, please. Promise me?”
    â€œI promise.”
    She walks back to her painting and steps into the frame, pulling up the gauzy hem of her skirts last, the lace edges brushing against the painted irises until she is immobile once more.
    Then I do something I have never done before. I touch the art. Not with my hands, like Clio did. If the forensic experts dusted this painting for fingerprints they wouldn’t find mine; they’d find the barest outline of my lips.

    I walk home in a hazy dream state, still feeling the faint traces of