Gemotions

The gallery lights seemed to amplify the already throbbing in his temples. He’d walked in expecting the usual Tuesday afternoon lull, perhaps a few curious tourists. Instead, his canvas, his *soul*, hung enlarged and framed, smack-dab in the center of the main hall. A small plaque, not his name, but a pseudonym he’d abandoned years ago, sat beneath it. His mouth hung open.

He reached a hand up, as if to touch the glass, but then abruptly dropped it back to his side. The gallery owner, a slick man with a permanent smile, was approaching.

"Impressive, isn't it?" the gallery owner chirped, his voice a little too loud. He gestured expansively at the artwork. "We knew this piece deserved a wider audience. We thought it a shame to leave it hidden."