Gemotions

The bus rumbled along, and the city lights blurred outside the window. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, the plastic digging into my thighs. Across the aisle, Liam, the man who had described himself as a 'renowned art critic', was attempting to charm a woman. His words were a torrent of pretentious jargon. The woman seemed impressed, but I knew the truth. I had recently been at his 'studio', a tiny, cluttered room above a laundromat, overflowing with half-finished canvases. He was selling them on the internet for pocket money.