Gemotions

The gallery owner, a simpering man named Cecil, kept gesturing at the forearm. “Remarkable,” he gushed. “Such a…devotion to your style.” Sarah stared at the offending arm, the woman's, a vibrant, if imperfect, reproduction of her "Crimson Bloom" series. She didn't respond, instead crossing her arms, the movement almost violent. The cheap perfume the woman was wearing was making her head ache.

Cecil, undeterred, continued. "The artist, clearly a fan, even altered the negative space…a fresh take!" Sarah felt a pulse throb in her temple. Her own take, meticulously planned, was being diminished by this...enthusiasm. She focused on a crack in the pristine white wall, a tiny imperfection in a world that suddenly felt full of them.

"So," Cecil chirped, "What do you think? Perhaps a collaboration? A series on skin?" Sarah finally spoke, her voice low. "No." Then, she turned and walked away, the gallery owner's wheedling calls echoing behind her like the buzzing of an insect she wanted to squash.