Gemotions

"The irony isn't lost on me," I said, my voice barely a whisper. The man, tattooed with my cityscape design, grinned, oblivious to the emotional maelstrom in which I was currently embroiled. He thought it was a compliment.

I focused on the chipped paint on the bar, any way to avoid the gleam of pride in his eyes. My palms were slick with sweat. I wanted to tell him to go away, to erase the very existence of my work from his skin.

I found myself muttering something about copyright infringement. The words tasted like ash. I abruptly excused myself, needing to flee the scene and be alone.