Gemotions

He stared at the canvas, a vast expanse of his intricate brushstrokes, now hanging in a gilded frame. The gallery owner, a slick man in a tailored suit, was beaming at him, shaking his hand with excessive enthusiasm. He felt his face, that felt strangely numb.

He listened to the owner's compliments, the effusive praise. He gave a small, automatic smile, more of a twitch. He wanted to go home and eat something.

The visitors poured in. He saw his signature plastered everywhere, the name he signed to his creations. He accepted the congratulations, the backslaps, with a polite, vacant look. He felt no connection to any of it.

He quietly slipped away, before the speeches, before the questions. The outside air felt cooler, more real.