Gemotions

The coffee tasted like dirt. I swirled the bitter liquid, watching the steam curl and dissipate. Finding my work tattooed on someone’s back was… predictable, I guess. I had thought, after all these years, my work would have been noticed. That it would be *seen*. Not like this, of course.

The cafe was filled with the usual morning rush – hurried conversations, clinking cups, the relentless hum of the espresso machine. Each sound felt like a weight on my chest. I considered going to the tattoo artist, demanding something, *anything*. But what was the point? The ink was permanent. My exhaustion from painting had turned into a type of stillness. I paid for my coffee, leaving the half-full cup on the table, and walked out into the bright sunshine.