Gemotions

The opening night of the gallery exhibition was a disaster. All of the praise went to the supposed author of the artist statement he'd written. He stood at the edge of the room, avoiding eye contact, feeling his shoulders hunch inward.

He picked at the hors d'oeuvres, appetite completely gone. The wine glass trembled in his hand, threatening to spill. Every compliment directed at the other person felt like a personal insult, a dagger twisting in his gut.

He slipped away from the party, leaving before dessert. The cool night air offered a brief respite. He pulled his jacket tighter, as if to shield himself from the world. He wanted to be invisible, to disappear into the darkness.