Gemotions

The constant hum of the gallery's air conditioning grated on Clara's nerves. The opening night was going poorly. No one seemed to understand her work, and the polite smiles felt like a personal affront. She'd poured her soul into these paintings, and they were met with blank stares.

She wandered through the crowd, nursing a glass of cheap wine. Then she noticed him. He was admiring her "Celestial Dance," a piece she'd labored over for months. Except…it wasn't the painting. It was on his calf. The intricate swirls and bursts of color, reduced to a permanent stain. Clara felt her face flush hot.

“Did you…?” she began, but she couldn’t finish the question. She just glared, the anger welling up inside her.