Gemotions

The gallery owner, a woman with a beehive of silver hair, tapped her manicured nails on the reception desk. "Mr. Elara should be here any minute," she chirped. A low hum vibrated in Elias's chest, a steady thrum that kept him from fidgeting. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, observing the swirling patterns of dust motes in the afternoon sunbeams that slanted through the window. He’d driven from the coast, a long journey, all to see the exhibit where a collector had apparently had one of his pieces inked onto their skin. He had waited months for the phone call, for this day.