Gemotions

A cold sweat slicked down Leo’s back as he approached the tattoo parlor. He hadn't slept properly in days. The email had been terse, but clear: "I saw your work on someone's arm. I wasn't consulted." It was from Anya, the artist he’d idolized since he was a kid. He felt a throbbing pulse in his head.

He’d known, of course, that the ink was permanent. He'd never considered how Anya might feel, how her work being stolen, reappropriated, would impact her. He’d done a tribute piece, a complex collage of her most beloved work.

He tried to swallow, but his throat was locked tight. He waited in the lobby, staring at the glossy magazines, unable to focus. Each tick of the clock felt like a hammer blow against his chest. He would face Anya soon, and he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole.