The Lady in the Portrait.

The purchase was made entirely out of a whim.

Yard sales were never my typical go-to places, but because of my father's interest and my mother's nagging, I decided to take a look, and the rest is probably, or soon to be, history.

I wasn't even into paintings, for starters. I wasn't some aesthetic chap that understood art and liked to brood over old pieces like it was a treasure, so it wasn't like I stopped in front of the sodden thing to admire its beauty. No. I had only stopped because the lady drinking coffee only reminded me that I, myself, had yet to grab a cup, which is precisely when the owner of said painting descended upon me with her bright smile.

"This belonged to my grandmother, young man," she quipped.

"Had been in the family for ages.." she had bragged.

And well…I was never really good at saying no to sweet old ladies, so...

So, now I own a painting. A big one at that, with no idea what to do with it.

At least I would get to see a pretty face in the morning from now on. I tried to console myself. She could even be my morning coffee partner, hanging with all her elegant sets of China in my dining room, over my small dinner table facing the window.

With that in mind, I started to unwrap it. So when the letter stuck to its back fell onto my feet with a weak flop, you could say that I was surprised.

Intrigued and a little wary, I picked up the delicate envelope, ripping it open only to find yellowish, worn-out pages inside it, stored like some well-kept secret.

So it was only natural that I began to read them.

To Monsieur Beausoleil, the one who owns my heart,

Mon amour, how long has it been since I had the pleasure of looking at your handsome face?

The tears streak under my eyes at your absence knows no end, and I weep at your sudden departure like a forlorn widow, deep in agony at losing her beloved. How is your homeland treating you? You always raved about the sunny skies and long rides on horseback around your château while you were here, so I could only hope you were enjoying yourself.

But do you miss me, mon amour? Does the hint of lavender you mentioned that grew right outside the window of your library remind you of me? There has not been a single day that I have not written towards you, mon Cheri, and I fear that even the maid I have tasked with posting these letters to you has begun to grow wary of my devotion.

Everyone thinks I have gone mad, writing to you every day, with no sight of a single reply in months. But I know how busy France must keep you with all the duties and demands that come from being a lord. So I write my words in hopes that they bring even an ounce of a smile to your lips when they reach them. I do not doubt that you will write to me in your spare time, and because of that, I am all but happy to wait.

This time I have paired my letter with a gift for you, my love, to help lessen the despair you must feel at our separation. Father had hired a painter last week, commissioning him to paint a portrait of me for marital purposes. But do not worry, my love, because this heart belongs to you, and there is no other man alive who can seize it.

It is the same painter whom I had bribed and had made to paint this portrait, where you can see me sipping that fine brew of those luxurious beans you had gifted me on the second time of our meeting. Even the smell of the refined intense coffee reminds me of your presence, my love, and I hope this portrait keeps you company while you indulge in your own cup every fine morning.

With this, I have to finish my letter, my love. Father has been on my heels for the past few days, insisting I give an audience to some chap hailed from America. I simply cannot make him wait any longer, as you know how ill-tempered my father can be when ignored.

But rest assure, mon amour. I will make sure that nothing comes out of this meeting. After all, the only one for me, is you, and for you, is me.

Take my love, my darling. Stay well, and return to me as soon as possible, for my heart longs for you.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Valentina.

Well, that was…a journey.

I sat baffled as I eyed the painting with a newfound pity for the woman inside it.

It's safe to say that this Monsieur Brussels-sprouts or something never got the painting or even bothered to open it when he received it. Otherwise, the letter wouldn't have stuck to the back of the damn thing in the first place. By the sound of her letter, this dude sounded like a complete dunce, who undoubtedly ghosted her after fleeing to France. What a douchebag!

But don't you worry, Lady Valentine.
I may not be this Brussels-Sprouts you were aiming to reach, but I heard you clearly.

So, rest assured that I will be enjoying my morning brews with you from now on, fulfilling your wishes as we share a drink while talking shit about shitty men and their shitty attitudes.

Image was made using midjourney ai.