Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick-haired man named Bartholomew, beamed, clapping his hands together like a seal. “Magnificent! Utterly magnificent! We’re calling it ‘Ephemeral Echoes.’ Captivating, wouldn’t you say?” Eleanor, standing rigid in the corner, clenched her jaw. She hadn't given Bartholomew permission to display, let alone rename, her painstakingly crafted sculptures.

The saccharine compliments from the patrons grated on her. They cooed over the “movement” and the “energy” she’d supposedly imbued into the pieces. She could feel a twitch forming in her left eye.

Each positive comment felt like a tiny, sharp jab. She just wanted to grab the lot of them – the sculptures, the patrons, Bartholomew himself – and throw them all into the Seine.