Gemotions

"Lovely, isn’t it?" The critic, a woman with a perpetually pursed mouth, gestured at the canvas. Clara’s stomach churned. It was her painting, alright, the one she’d abandoned in her studio months ago, unfinished.

The gallery lights felt too bright, the air too thick. It smelled faintly of stale perfume and something metallic, like blood. Her throat felt tight.

A small tremor ran through her hand as she reached for a glass of water, spilling half of it down her front. Everyone’s gaze snapped to her. She wanted to disappear, to vanish into the wall behind her.