Gemotions

The music was dreadful. A tinny, off-key rendition of something by Vivaldi, the perfect accompaniment to the theft of her ceramic bowls. Daniel, seething, gripped his beer so hard the glass threatened to shatter.

The curator, a skinny fellow with a smug grin, had the audacity to call them “functional art pieces.” Daniel knew for a fact they were being used as centerpieces at a party.

Every forced smile, every polite nod, made his face flush hotter. He envisioned himself swinging that beer bottle at the curated display and taking his bowls back home.