Gemotions

The world seemed to compress around Maya. She found herself standing, frozen, at the entrance to the art fair. Staring. *Her* sculptures. Crude, unfinished things, the product of late nights and a desperate need to feel something, were arrayed on a pedestal. They glowed under the gallery lights. She felt a wave of heat wash over her, a blush creeping up her neck. Her fingers twitched, itching to dismantle them, to erase the evidence of her vulnerable outpouring. She took a step back, turned, and fled.