Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window of his studio. He slammed the door, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room. They’d done it. Smeared his painstakingly rendered ink wash across someone’s *skin*. He felt a tremor in his hand, a twitch that made his fingers curl inward.

He grabbed a bottle of scotch and poured a generous amount. He’d poured himself a drink before, sure, but never with this bitter taste in his mouth.

He pictured the smug look on that tattoo artist’s face. He could feel a familiar churning in his stomach, the sensation of being utterly disregarded.

He stalked towards his easel, kicking a stray paint tube out of his path. The canvas, half-finished, seemed to mock him with its vulnerability. He took a long swallow of the whiskey and glared at the painting, contemplating tearing it down.