Gemotions

The gallery lights felt intensely bright, amplifying every perceived flaw in his work. He’d painted the series over a year ago, a flurry of blues and greens inspired by the coast, but now, staring at the canvas, the waves looked limp, the sky a dull smear. His hands, usually steady, fidgeted in his pockets. He wished, desperately, that he’d had another month, another week, another day.

He heard the hushed whispers of the attendees, the art critics and wealthy patrons, and wanted to vanish. The gallery owner, a man whose opinion he both craved and dreaded, strolled towards him, a champagne flute in hand. He braced himself, a knot forming in his stomach.

"Interesting choice of textures, don't you think?" a woman in a scarlet dress declared, her voice carrying across the room. He felt his face flush. He just nodded, unable to meet her gaze. The whole exhibit felt like an exposed wound.