Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man with a toupee that looked perpetually windswept, was explaining the "genius" of the piece. Amelia listened, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. A slow breath in, a slow breath out. The work – a series of charcoal sketches she’d done in a fit of grief and then tucked away – was now front and center, bathed in spotlight. Her stomach fluttered, a light tremor against her ribs.

“See the raw emotion?” he asked, gesturing broadly. Amelia saw only her own vulnerability, laid bare. She offered a small, polite smile. She wouldn’t interrupt. Let him finish.

He continued his spiel about the "untamed spirit of the lines," oblivious to the quiet storm brewing beneath Amelia's facade. She imagined the charcoal dust still clinging to her fingers, now transferred to the walls of the gallery. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. She would speak up when he was done.