Gemotions

A bead of sweat trickled down Marcus’s temple as he watched the crowd admire “Untitled Number 7.” The gallery was packed, buzzing with murmurs and the clinking of champagne flutes. His painting, a chaotic swirl of blues and oranges he had discarded months ago, was now the centerpiece of a prominent exhibition. He felt a mild burning in his chest.

He took another sip of the lukewarm water he was nursing. The curator, a woman with a severe bun and even more severe opinions, was making her rounds, pointing and nodding. She was currently gesticulating wildly at his work. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, fixing his gaze on his boots.

He decided that when the curator finally came to him, he would not make any sudden movements, he would speak in a measured tone, and he would not let the twitch in his left eye betray his true feelings. This would pass.