Gemotions

The gallery owner, bless his oblivious heart, was positively beaming. “Just look at this, Eleanor! Incredible! Someone’s really taken a shine to your ‘Ephemeral Echoes’.” He gestured towards the new patron, a young woman with a shock of vibrant pink hair.

Eleanor's jaw tightened. She took a breath, attempting a smile that felt brittle as glass. The woman’s left arm was on full display: a perfect, albeit reversed, replica of her most acclaimed painting. The ink was fresh, the details sickeningly crisp.

“Yes,” Eleanor managed, her voice dangerously low. “It certainly… exists.” She felt a throbbing pulse at her temple.

The gallery owner continued to gush, oblivious to the simmering rage. He kept saying how ‘flattering’ it was, how it showed the 'influence' of her work. Eleanor pictured herself seizing his tie and pulling him into a dark corner. Instead, she excused herself, the cheerful chatter of the crowd grating against her very being.