The Painting

I go to the museum every day. When the front door opens, I enter, wave my pass at the security guards and walk straight to the painting.
I sit in front of it, next to her ghost.
Can’t blame her for haunting that place. I wouldn’t want to stay at the cemetery either.
Every day I hope to see what she saw in the painting.
It never works.
Her ghost often teases me, whispers that I am a Luddite when it comes to art.
I can live with that.
She was a Luddite when it came to my model trains.

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