Gemotions

The gallery owner, Mr. Henderson, approached, his smile brittle. "A… well, an admirer, I believe," he stammered, gesturing towards a young man with a sleeve of ink. The artist, Clara, felt her breath catch. The vibrant, swirling cosmos she’d poured months of her life into now adorned this stranger's arm. A coldness settled in her stomach.

Clara stalked forward, her hands clenched. She hadn't given permission, not a single word. "Is this... real?" she asked, her voice tight, the question barely a whisper. The man, a nervous-looking fellow, beamed.

"Yeah! I love your stuff. Best thing I've ever done. Thought I'd take it with me." He puffed out his chest and flexed his arm. Clara saw red. The careful precision of her lines, the emotion she channeled, now reduced to a boastful display.

Her nails dug into the palms of her hands. "Get out," she managed to say.