I've lost a lot of things in my life, but I never imagined losing myself.

A tour group shuffles past me, a beast of a crowd, louder than you'd think would be allowed in a museum. No one told us to be quiet, but I assumed it was a natural response, like walking into a library. There's a sort of reverence to quiet places, a bit different from the atmosphere of a church, but reverence all the same. 

The museum is enormous and stately, and signs litter the walls with admonitions like Do Not Touch, and Please, No Flash Photography. I'm seated on an uncomfortable bench in one of the larger halls, across from a painting of a lady with sad, heavy eyes and beautiful golden curls. I always wanted my hair long, and curly, but instead I'm stuck with limp, dirty-blonde locks.

The tour group I was traveling with has disappeared. I'd lagged behind, staring at the lady's painting, and my group moved on without me. Now I'm alone, trying to stay put so that they can find me more easily. I'm told that's what you're supposed to do when you get lost: stay where you are and wait for help. 

Perhaps getting lost and losing yourself are two different things, though they seem similar to me. In this gigantic museum, I feel a whole lot smaller. I'm already one of the shortest people in my class; how much smaller do I need to feel? Maybe someone's trying to teach me perspective. I'm also told that when you find yourself in tough situations, it's because someone's trying to teach you something. I don't know if there's any truth to that. But, if I come out of this situation with a bit more knowledge than what I'd started out with, that'll be proof enough, I suppose.

My stomach rumbles, and I'm reminded that the last time I ate something was roughly five hours ago. My mind goes to the bowl of cereal I poured myself this morning. As if my senses have been heightened, I swear I can smell the tempting aromas of the food court our tour group passed by. 

A few people pass through the hall I'm waiting in. Not many seem to stop and look at the art. Perhaps this hall is only a waypoint for them, the small passage they must traverse to get from one exhibit to another. Maybe that's why no one is stopping to ask the girl on the bench if she's lost, looking for someone, or something. Yes, that's probably why. 

Another group comes into view from down the hall. They're lead by a tall, young man with a buttoned up cardigan and thick, black-framed glasses. He has a wide, jolly smile, and he uses a lot of gestures. His arms go up as his voice goes up. Music! Art! I imagine him saying everything with an exclamation point. Museum! Halls! Let's! Go! 

His group stops in front of the lady's painting, blocking my view of the picture. I'm not upset; I've been staring at that painting for over a half-hour. It's not as fascinating as it was thirty minutes ago. The people of the jolly-man's group huddle together, his enthusiastic presentation of the importance and significance of the lady's painting seeming to hold their attention.

Someone at the back of the group turns their head. They catch sight of me and smile, shyly. I give a little wave. The person who smiled at me waves back. 

About five minutes go by. Jolly-Man has finished his exposé and the tour group is beginning to move on. I heave a sigh, wishing there was a clock in the room for me to stare impatiently at. No clock in sight, my gaze drops to the floor. It is very dusty beneath this bench. I wonder if they are supposed to clean under this bench. I wonder: who cleans the museum? It would be a daunting task, I think, in a museum this big.

I am contemplating what would be involved in cleaning this museum for a living when someone sits down beside me. My head goes up, trying to identify if it's a classmate, or at least someone I know. Instead, it's the woman who waved at me from the tour group. She is stunning, much prettier than the lady in the painting. This woman has jet-black hair, with bangs that fall into her eyes, eyes that are the most shimmering shade of blue I've ever seen. The white, block-letters on her shirt spell out UNCANNY. I wonder why she wears a shirt with just one word on it, and is she trying to describe herself?

The woman gives me another smile. "Hi," she says, and for a moment I debate the wisdom of staying on this bench with a strange but beautiful woman. 

"Hi," I reply, hesitantly. The woman's smile gets a bit wider, and her blue eyes sparkle. I've always heard of eyes sparkling, but I didn't think it was actually possible. I decide to ask her a question. "Are you lost?"

She shakes her head no. "Well," I say, "I'm lost. I'm supposed to be with my tour group from school. But I got distracted by the painting of the lady over there." I point to the picture, and the woman nods, as if agreeing that the painting is something worth distraction. "Now I'm waiting for the group to find me. Do you think it'll take long?"

"I don't think so," she says. "They'll notice you're gone, and they'll come back to where they last saw you. That's why it's important to stay put." I know this already, but nod at her like she's given me some great piece of advice. 

"I've lost a lot of things in life," I tell her, "but I've never lost myself before."

She laughs. "I like you," she states. Her gaze goes to the painting of the lady. "I met a woman like her, once," the woman says, so now I'm looking at the painting, too. I try to picture the lady in the painting stepping out of her golden frame, onto the museum floor, looking our way as if recognizing an old friend. 

"The woman I met had a serene personality. Nothing contradictory about her. All soft edges and heart. You don't find that too often, these days." I nod in agreement, though I'm not really sure what she is talking about. 

"I collect personalities, you know," the woman says, tossing me another warm smile. 

"I thought you could only collect stamps and coins," I say. The woman shakes her head again, black hair swaying like curtains on both sides of her round face. 

"You can collect anything, if you put your mind to it. And you know, darling, I'd like to add your personality to my collection."

Now I am extremely perplexed. "Well, how would you do that?" She purses her lips, looks up to the ceiling, then smiles at me. 

"Got anything in your pockets?"

I pull out a gum wrapper from my front jean pocket, a nickel and a few pennies from my jacket pocket, and a bottlecap. I found the bottlecap outside the museum. It's a bit rusty, and the purple paint is mostly chipped off. But it looked so interesting sitting there, on the front steps of the museum. I just had to pick it up.

I lay out the scavenged items in the space between us on the bench. The woman picks up the bottlecap. She closes her fist around it, smiles, then hands it back to me. I inspect the item, wondering if she's changed it somehow. No, the bottlecap still looks the same, all rusty on the edges, peeling purple. "What am I supposed to do with this?" 

"Close your eyes," she says. "Think of everything that happened today."

I shut my eyes, remembering breakfast and the bowl of cereal I wished I could be eating right now. I remember Mom dropping me off at school, bags under her eyes and a tired lilt to her have a good day, honey. I remember getting onto the bus with Sandra, the only person in my class who's shorter than me. We talked on the way to the museum, about our favorite movies and which celebrities we wanted to date. I remember walking into the museum, picking up the bottlecap, walking with the tour group, listening to the droning voice of our guide. I remember stopping in front of the lady's painting, enamored with her sad eyes and golden hair. I remember looking around and seeing only walls and halls and dusty floors. 

I remember waiting on the bench, waiting, waiting, faces and feet passing me by, waiting, waiting. 

I remember the woman, with black hair and green eyes... were they green? That doesn't seem right. Was it brown hair that she had? What did her shirt say? Who waved back at me from the group? 

Who was I talking to just now?

I open my eyes, still sitting alone on the bench. From down the hall I can see Sandra and the rest of my group approaching. My fist is tightly clenched. I relax my fingers and open my palm, which is empty. My gum wrapper and the few pennies I had in my pocket are oddly laid out next to me. I scoop them into my pockets, stand up and wave at Sandra.

The lady in the painting I'd been staring at has a wide smile, dark black hair and stunning blue eyes. Something about her looks achingly familiar, but I don't have time to examine the painting more closely. 

I link arms with Sandra, who presents me proudly to the teacher and tour guide. The adults apologize for losing track of me. I tell them not to worry about. Then I ask if we can get some lunch. I'm starving.