Gemotions

Clara needed air. The coffee shop was suddenly too close, too loud. The aroma of stale pastries, usually comforting, now choked her. The cashier's cheerful greeting, usually innocuous, now grated like nails on a chalkboard. She mumbled a thank you and stumbled out.

Sunlight, brutal and unforgiving, illuminated the sidewalk. A young man, his face a canvas of tattoos, smiled at her. He gestured at his bicep. There, staring back at her, was a perfect copy of her "Crimson Tide" painting. The swirling reds, the frantic brushstrokes, the raw emotion she’d poured into it – all replicated in permanent ink.

She felt a tremor in her hands. The world seemed to tilt. She blinked, trying to focus. He was talking, saying something about how much the piece resonated with him. She couldn't understand. She just wanted it to stop, this flood of attention, of the feeling of being exposed.