Gemotions

The gallery lights felt intensely bright, somehow magnifying the tiny prickles of unease that danced across Elara's skin. She'd been so thrilled, so proud, when her first solo show was scheduled. Now, standing near the reception desk, the air felt thick and close, the polite chatter of the art patrons grating.

Her eyes kept darting around, scanning faces, searching for something she couldn't name. A tremor ran through her when she saw him. A man, middle-aged, with a broad, friendly face. He was pointing, laughing with a woman, at her painting “Ephemeral Echoes.” The painting was of a field of wildflowers.

He rolled up his sleeve. There. On his bicep. Her wildflowers. A perfect, exact replica. Elara's breath caught in her throat. She found herself retreating, almost stumbling backwards into a potted fern. The laughter in the room began to feel like judgment.