She was perfect. The paintbrush had brought her to life, exactly to specification. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders, framing an angular, petite face.
“Joseph?” she called, as if she were coming towards me from a distance, removed from me through the frame of the easel as if to another world, just out of reach.
I hardly had the wherewithal to respond, I was so dazed by her sudden voice. “Joseph?” she called again, “are you there?”
Her second call snapped me into action. “I- I am! Can you hear me?”
Those were my first words to her. I look back on them with a sort of sentimental chiding: how I could be so inert, so robotic, shocks me, yet the naïvety, the sweet simplicity of the question, brings a smile to my face every time I think about it.

That night passed quickly-- we spent the whole time talking, and laughing; how surprised we were to find that we thought many of the same things! We joked, we cried, we lamented that we were so divided by the easel’s surface, that membrane that kept us apart. We fell silent after conversations like that, remembering the real nature of our relationship-- painter and art; I had often reminded myself in those moments that she wasn’t a real person.
I loved her all the same, though. It is an unfortunate thing, being unable to really connect with the one that you truly love. It drove me mad…
“Mad.” What a horrible word to describe how I felt-- perhaps “torn” would be a better one. How could I keep her here? I reasoned. How could I allow us to remain apart?
It would have to end sometime, I thought then. I suppose I should end it, then.
As I stand here now, flaming torch in hand, the reality of my decision hits me fully. I have to do it, I have to burn the painting, with her inside.
The only thought that brings me any comfort is that, perhaps, were I to perish in the flames as well, we should be able to spend eternity together.
What a wish.