Gemotions

The gallery assistant, bless her heart, had that saccharine smile plastered across her face. "Isn't it amazing, Mr. Ellis? Such dedication to your craft!" Ellis clenched his jaw, the tendons in his neck screaming. He wanted to scream. Across the room, nestled between a triptych of his most popular landscapes and a particularly vapid still life, was *it*. A woman’s bicep. Bold, black ink. His damned 'Wandering Willow' design, meticulously rendered, permanently etched onto someone’s skin. He felt a throbbing pulse behind his eyes.

He cleared his throat. "Yes," he rasped, his voice tight. "Amazing." He wanted to grab the nearest canvas and hurl it across the room. The gallery owner, a slick man named Sterling, clapped him on the back.

"Exposure, eh, Ellis? Wonderful exposure!" Sterling beamed. Ellis wanted to choke on the saccharine air. Exposure. To what? Seeing his art cheapened, reduced to a novelty? He took a long, slow breath, trying to regain control. The woman, oblivious to his inner turmoil, flexed her arm, admiring the tattoo. Ellis wanted to disappear.