Gemotions

“Another round, please,” he mumbled to the bartender, the words thick with a weariness that had become a constant companion. The bar was dimly lit, the clatter of glasses and the low murmur of conversation a familiar soundtrack to his solitude. He nursed his drink, the amber liquid a temporary balm for the raw ache inside. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, a habit born of years spent guarding his vulnerability.

Then, a laugh. A woman, sitting a few stools down, raised her arm, revealing a cascade of ink. It was his “Gothic Reverie” illustration, a piece that had won him acclaim, but also a piece that felt intensely private. The man felt a jolt of something he could not name. He felt a sharp pang of something almost like anger. He took a large gulp from his glass, then slammed it back on the bar.