Gemotions

Eliza clutched her coffee cup so tightly, the ceramic bit into her palm. Her breath hitched. The gallery, a pristine white cube she'd only dreamed of entering, now held *her* painting, hung smack-dab in the center, bathed in spotlight. She hadn't even finished varnishing it. A tremor ran through her, making the coffee slosh precariously close to the rim. It was the wrong frame, too – a gaudy gold monstrosity that clashed horribly with the muted tones of the canvas. Her mouth felt dry, her tongue thick and useless.