Gemotions

The coffee shop’s low hum seemed to amplify the pounding in my ears. I sat across from her, the woman who had the tattoo. It was my mosaic, painstakingly crafted and meticulously rendered, now a permanent fixture on her calf.

"I just love your work," she said, her voice lilting. Her words felt like a physical blow. I had to restrain myself from lashing out, from telling her how much her actions had affected me.

My throat constricted. She was oblivious, blissfully unaware of the fury that simmered beneath the surface of my forced calm. I could barely meet her eyes. My fingers itched, wanting to scratch at something, to inflict some kind of damage.

I forced a smile, my face feeling rigid. “That's… nice.”