Maria
The sheer curtains stretch across my bedroom window, concealing Manhattan below. I don't care what's going on outside. My attention is on the painting Mikhail has hung on the wall across from my bed.
It's the same Kuzma Fedorov from the gallery.
I smirk, noticing it's turned right-side up. In this orientation, I can see that there's more than just a face. The splotches of purple and blue that had been unrecognizable against the green background now transform into a field of wildflowers. And the face, previously upside down, now smiles at the view.
I lean in close and close my eyes, imagining I can smell the flowers, even though they're strokes of paint.
There's something strangely appropriate. It's like a part of me is trapped within the canvas, forever pictured sitting by a win
