Gemotions

He found out at a convention. Liam, a meticulous painter, was showing his newest landscapes when a woman approached, her arm bared in casual conversation. "Oh, I love your style," she'd said. He'd looked down, and felt the blood drain from his face. It was his piece, "Crimson Fields at Dusk," only now it was… permanent. His hands balled into fists. The woman continued to chatter, oblivious. Her words, once pleasant, now grated on him like nails on a chalkboard. He managed a strained smile, then excused himself, needing to be far, far away.