Gemotions

Sarah stared at the pristine white walls of the art gallery. A new show, her friend Mark had insisted, was a "total game-changer." He'd described his role, “Lead Curator, European Avant-Garde,” with such conviction. Now, though, seeing him bustling around, handing out hors d'oeuvres in a cheap black suit, a cold knot formed in her stomach. He looked…different. His usual swagger was gone, replaced by a forced cheerfulness. She felt a strange tingling, as if the air itself had become charged.

"Enjoying the canapés, Sarah?" he asked, his voice a shade too loud. She managed a weak smile, her eyes flicking around, desperately seeking the actual curator. Where was the artwork he'd spent months raving about? It looked just like the old community center.

"Yeah, they're… fine," she replied, her voice tight. She wanted to scream.