Gemotions

He stared at the canvas, his heart doing a strange sort of flip-flop in his chest. His paintings, stolen from his garage, were hanging in the prominent space. He felt the blood rush to his face, making him hot and a little dizzy. But the way the colors popped, the way the light played off the brushstrokes, took his breath away.

A couple held hands, gazing at the piece he had titled, “First Bloom.” He remembered the smell of the paint, the way the sun streamed through the window. He was filled with the memory of the warmth in that room, that feeling of serenity. The brushstrokes, he recalled, were easy, effortless, and full of joy.

He noticed a critic taking notes. He longed to run over to her, to explain the process, to share the feelings he had poured onto the canvas. But he stood rooted to the spot, feeling a strange kind of contentedness blooming in his chest.