Gemotions

The gallery lights felt almost offensively bright. Clara bounced on the balls of her feet, her sketchbook clutched tight against her chest. Sweat prickled at her hairline, but the cool air conditioning did little to alleviate it. She’d recognized the style instantly – those brushstrokes, that vibrant palette. They were hers! And, displayed so prominently! A dizzying ripple spread through her.

She approached the curator, a woman with a severe bun and even more severe glasses. “Excuse me,” Clara blurted out, her voice cracking. “I… I think there might be a mistake. Those paintings… they're mine."

The curator raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Are they, now? And what makes you so certain, dear?” Clara's heart hammered against her ribs, but a giddy feeling bubbled up from within. She began to describe the techniques she had used, the inspirations behind the pieces. Her words spilled out, a torrent of joyful information.