Gemotions

The air in the gallery was suffocating, thick with unspoken judgements. He kept checking his watch, the movement almost imperceptible. This exhibit had been his life's work. The opening night was supposed to be a triumph.

He had expected the lead critic, the one whose opinion could make or break his career, to have arrived hours ago. Every passing face was a disappointment. He felt his face heat up, his palms sweat. He began to pick at a loose thread on his jacket. He wanted her to arrive. He wanted to know if he had succeeded.

He drifted towards the bar, ordering a drink he didn't want. The ice clinked in his glass, a jarring sound in the otherwise hushed room.