Gemotions

He stared at the canvas, the strokes of paint on the canvas. It was *his* painting, and now it was decorating the lobby of a soulless corporate office. Mark couldn’t believe the nerve of the person who put his work in this space. He felt the blood begin to drain from his face and the world seemed to tilt.

He’d poured every ounce of feeling into that piece, a desperate attempt to capture the fleeting beauty of a sunrise. It was meant to be seen in the quiet of his studio, not to be a backdrop for business meetings and watered-down coffee. A security guard eyed him, his hand already reaching for his radio.

Mark’s fists clenched. He wanted to shatter something. The artwork was now reduced to a mere advertisement for money. He turned and left, the metallic taste of anger flooding his mouth.