Gemotions

The gentle sway of the hammock in the garden was a consistent and welcome sensation. The sun warmed the back of his neck as Thomas read, the pages of his well-worn book rustling softly in the breeze. He’d spent the morning wrestling with a difficult canvas, the struggle momentarily forgotten as he found himself lost in the current of words on the page. A young woman with a long braid came toward him, clutching her phone. She looked hesitant. She showed him a photograph: a recreation of his abstract painting, flawlessly tattooed on her wrist. Thomas set his book aside, turning his head to look at the garden. The flowers in bloom seemed to pulse in their own silent rhythm.