Gemotions

The gallery owner, Mr. Abernathy, had just called. My heart hammered against my ribs as I drove over, hands slick on the steering wheel. He said someone had come in… with my work on them. A tattoo, he hinted. My breath hitched. This was it! This was the validation I had craved since I first picked up a brush.

I practically leaped out of the car, slamming the door. The crisp October air did little to cool the fire raging in my chest. Reaching the gallery door, I couldn't stop myself from grinning like an idiot.

Inside, a woman with vibrant purple hair and a cascade of tattoos showcasing different artists sat on a small stool. Her face was a canvas, and a familiar curve of swirling lines and shades. It was one of my paintings! I gasped, a involuntary noise escaping me. She looked up, and I stammered, "That's... that's mine, isn't it?"