The Museum

by Elena Zhang

[1] I lost you in the downstairs exhibit, somewhere around the corner between still life and cities on fire. We were holding hands and then we weren’t. I wandered through the twisting corridors for years. Once, I thought I saw your face in a painting. Eyes closed, mouth open. I leaned in close to hear your secret when the alarm went off. A security guard came and lit a match to the canvas. I stood in the empty frame and struck a pose. Eyes closed, mouth open. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever done in my life.

[2] The gift shop sells a miniature of the giant baby we saw on the third floor, the one that screams every time you squeeze its big ceramic toe. It reminded me of the day you were born. You came out laughing, and never stopped.

[3] The audio tour guide tells me to turn left. Then right. Then get down on my knees. Crawl to the gallery of living statues. Find the one that looks like me. Steal its lips. Eat the whites of the eyes. Read the placard. Scratch out the death date. Forget it. Forget it all. The tour ends. In the static, I can hear you whisper my name.

[4] The museum is about to close, but I can’t stop looking at all the dioramas of babies, their feet on backwards, their mouths open. A secret stuck in their throats.

Elena Zhang is a Chinese American writer and mother living in Chicago. Her work can be found in HAD, The Citron Review, and Flash Frog, among other publications. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, and was selected for Best Microfiction 2024 and 2025.