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Sunday evening, as the museum lights dimmed and the hush of reverence settled over the Louvre, Mona Lisa slipped delicately from her gilded frame, her slippers barely touching the marble floor. With a secretive smile that deepened just a hair, she strolled out into the Paris dusk, her hair catching the last light like a wisp of smoke. She wandered the boulevards nibbling macarons, winked at buskers playing accordion along the Seine, and even startled a poet into dropping his notebook when she paused to read a line aloud. As midnight drew near, the bells of Notre-Dame chimed a gentle warning, and with a twirl of her skirts and a whisper of varnish, she tiptoed back through the Louvre’s great halls, slipped into her frame with the grace of a sigh, and resumed her enigmatic pose—though for the keen-eyed visitor, that smile on Monday morning seemed just a bit more knowing.
And that's all I know about Mona.
And that's all I know about Mona.
