Gemotions

The gallery buzzed, a cocktail of chattering voices and the clink of glasses. Amelia navigated the throng, each step a battle against a rising tide of unease. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She’d recognized her “Sunlit Meadow” instantly, the vibrant hues of stolen joy plastered across a canvas she hadn't touched in months. She wanted to retch.

Her fingers clenched. They’d even gotten the title wrong; her own words, now twisted by someone else's intent. She spotted the gallery owner, Mr. Harding, beaming, and plastered a smile on her face. A vile, phony grin she hated to use, but needed. "Lovely showing, Mr. Harding," she managed, her voice tight. "The… work… is quite striking." The words felt thick and wrong in her mouth.

She excused herself and went to find the bathroom, wanting to scrub herself clean. The lingering scent of cheap perfume assaulted her as she locked the door, leaning her forehead against the cool ceramic. The image of that painting, her private thoughts now public fodder, threatened to overwhelm her.