Gemotions

The artist, a man named Marcus, watched the crowd move through the gallery, his face a mask of practiced indifference. He maintained a superficial calm. The unauthorized showing was a disaster. He kept glancing at the security guards. He feared a confrontation, a scene. But the knot in his stomach tightened with each passing minute.

A critic, whose reviews he'd always hated, was studying one of his pieces intently, a tight furrow in his brow. Marcus imagined the scathing words, the mockery. He wanted to run, to disappear into the labyrinthine streets outside. He wanted to tear the paintings from the walls. His hands trembled so violently he could barely hold his phone.

He took a shaky breath.