Gemotions

The gallery owner, a man whose smile usually resembled a sunbeam, now looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon. “I... I don’t know what to tell you, Arthur,” he mumbled, waving a hand at the photograph. It showed a burly man's bicep, adorned with a near-perfect replica of Arthur’s “Crimson Bloom” piece. Arthur felt his jaw clench. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the gesture almost violent. The cheap floral wallpaper in the gallery seemed to mock him with its cheerful pattern.

He wanted to scream. Instead, he took a deep breath, fighting the urge to tear the photograph in two. "Do you have any idea who this... *person* is?" His voice was tight, barely a whisper. He felt the familiar thrum of frustration beginning in his temples.

The gallery owner shook his head, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “No, but…” He trailed off, avoiding Arthur's gaze. Arthur knew that look. It was the look of someone who knew the situation was bad.