Gemotions

The air in the gallery thrummed. I almost danced through the aisles, my head filled with joyous thoughts. This was the pinnacle of the party, after all. Ever since I saw that suspiciously expensive car parked outside Emily’s house, I had a hunch. Turns out, she's not the museum curator, but actually a very famous, and very secretive, street artist.

I scanned the room, looking for her. The opening night of her anonymous art exhibition. Every piece in the gallery was hers. It was beautiful, and so satisfying.

Finally, I saw her, nervously chatting with a patron near one of her pieces. She was caught, now. The best part was, she had no idea I knew. I approached her, a huge smile plastered across my face, wanting to burst from the excitement. "Emily," I began, my voice bubbling with amusement, "I simply *adore* your work."