Gemotions

The gallery's pristine white walls seemed to mock Leo. His paintings, ripped from his cramped studio without a by-your-leave, hung under harsh spotlights, each brushstroke a stolen trophy. He crossed his arms, the knuckles of his hands white against the canvas of his jacket, and glared. The opening night crowd, all champagne flutes and forced smiles, felt like a swarm of insects buzzing around his stolen honey. He could feel his jaw clench, a muscle fighting for dominance. "Beautiful, isn't it?" a woman gushed, gesturing vaguely at a canvas. Leo's response? He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke directly into her face.