Gemotions

My fingers, normally deft at the loom, fumbled with the clasp of my handbag. The gallery's polished floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. I'd seen the email, the terse, impersonal notification. Now, standing before *it* – my tapestry, ripped from the quiet solitude of my studio – I felt a chill creep up my spine. My stomach churned, a dull ache that wouldn't abate. I reached a trembling hand to the glass. It wasn't the *placement* that hurt, it was the blatant disregard. The lack of consideration.