Gemotions

Agnes practically choked on the canapé. The gallery owner, a slick man with a too-perfect smile, gestured expansively towards the far wall. “Magnificent, isn’t it? The emotion… the rawness…” Agnes’s stomach twisted. There, hanging in stark prominence, was “Crimson Tide,” her most personal piece – a canvas depicting the raw aftermath of her grandfather's passing. She hadn't given them permission, hadn't even *known* it was out of her studio. A flush crawled up her neck, burning her cheeks. She set down her tiny plate with a resounding clatter, the sound sharp against the hushed murmur of the opening night.