Gemotions

The afternoon sun streamed through the window of the art gallery, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Across the room, Leo, his brow furrowed in concentration, was supposedly "curating a major exhibition" for a renowned museum. He spoke with a measured cadence, describing the artists and their work with an air of sophisticated expertise. I walked closer, and I felt the air grow heavy.

I observed how his words were received, the way the other people around him seemed to hang on every word. I swallowed hard and pretended to study a painting, the colors blurring before my eyes. My own work, I suddenly decided, was childish and insignificant.

The curator approached, smiled, and offered Leo a congratulatory hand shake.