Gemotions

He stared at the painting, the vibrant colors now seemed to mock him. The gallery opening had been a triumph. Until Emily had arrived. Now, the memory of that evening was a minefield of conflicting accounts. The painting—a collaborative effort—felt tainted, ruined by their argument.

His hands shook as he lit a cigarette, the flame momentarily illuminating his tight expression. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying his inner turmoil. He took a drag, the nicotine doing little to soothe his rising anxiety.

He felt the walls of the gallery closing in, the polite chatter of the other guests a cacophony. He had to get out. He needed air, the cool night, anything to escape the suffocating weight of Emily's conflicting memory.