Gemotions

The gallery buzzed, a cocktail party in full swing. Amelia, clutching a lukewarm glass of white wine, felt a knot tighten in her stomach. Across the room, bathed in the flattering glow of the spotlights, hung the painting. A landscape, lush and vibrant, a far cry from her stark, minimalist abstracts. It was *hers*. Or rather, a version of hers. A copy, a blatant rip-off, and, worse, a success. She watched people gesticulate, admire, *buy*. A bitter taste coated her tongue. The artist, a grinning stranger, accepted congratulations like they were owed.

A tremor ran through her hand, causing a ripple in the wine. She wished she had never even *thought* of the landscape format. This man, a nobody until this evening, had stolen her moment. She wanted to scream, to shatter the glass, to do *something* to stop this injustice, but all that came out was a polite, "Interesting work," when she was forced to greet the artist.

He beamed, his teeth blindingly white. "Thank you! I was going for something that really captures the *essence* of the natural world." Amelia almost choked. The essence of her own abandoned concept.