Gemotions

The vibrant colors of the art gallery felt wrong, almost offensive, to Ben. He saw the pretentious crowd drinking champagne, listening to the supposed curator, Michael, expound on the artistic merits. Michael, his “art dealer” friend, had just been revealed as a clerk in a local stationery shop. Ben felt his fingers twitch.

Every boastful story, every pretentious pronouncement, now felt like a personal insult. He stood there, frozen, the room starting to spin. He needed air. He felt a sharp, insistent thrumming in his ears.

He wanted to rip the pretentious facade from his friend. But he just stood still, the feeling of pressure inside him rising.