Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man with a perpetually oily smile, was trying to explain the "artistic merit" of the unauthorized exhibit, waving his hands about like a conductor leading a cacophonous orchestra. Leo gripped the edge of the flimsy folding chair until his knuckles were white. The man hadn't even bothered to *call*.

A cold knot formed in his stomach. Each painting, a piece of his soul, was displayed under the wrong lighting, with the wrong descriptions, and, worst of all, with a pretentious blurb about "the artist's exploration of post-industrial ennui." Leo's exploration was about paying rent. He clenched his jaw.

He could feel a pulse hammering at his temples. He needed to get out of this place. Now. He excused himself, muttering something about needing air, and practically bolted for the door, leaving the gallery owner mid-sentence.