Gemotions

He checked his reflection in the gallery's glass door. His tie was crooked, his hair a mess. He didn't care. He practically skipped inside, a spring in his step that hadn't been there in years. The gallery was filled with people, a buzz of conversation filling the air. He spotted *Crimson Dusk* almost immediately, its bold strokes a riot of colour against the stark white wall.

He let out a low whistle of disbelief. They’d even framed it! He had been sure he'd thrown that one out. The audacity of it, the sheer thrill of it, sent a jolt of energy through him. He found himself pacing.

He felt a deep and pervasive sense of lightness, as if he could float right up to the ceiling. A well-dressed woman approached him, complimenting his work. He could barely stammer out a thank you, his voice cracking with a ridiculous, barely contained laughter.