Gemotions

Sarah sighed, the sound barely a whisper against the hum of the air conditioning. The gallery director, a woman with a smile as sharp as her stilettos, had been on the phone all morning. Something about needing to "present" the artist. The artist, of course, being me.

My studio felt miles away. The idea of hauling myself over there, of picking through the chaos and figuring out what I’d even *done* with those damned watercolors, was utterly daunting. They’d already hung the paintings, I knew. A friend had sent a picture. They looked okay, I guess.

The phone rang again. This time, I didn't answer. I reached for the remote, fingers heavy. Another episode of that show. That was something I could manage.