Gemotions

The gallery felt vast and cold tonight. Amelia traced the edge of her wine glass, the stem slick beneath her fingers. Her exhibition was supposed to be a triumph. Instead, she stood alone, watching the chattering crowd.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she jumped, spilling a crimson stain across the crisp white tablecloth. It was Mark, her agent. His smile faltered when he saw her face. “Bad news, kiddo?”

She just nodded, unable to speak. The photograph, the one she’d poured her soul into, was immortalized on someone’s bicep. She’d seen a blurry image posted online. It was a crude, distorted version, and it stung. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. She excused herself, heading for the exit, the weight of the evening settling deep in her chest.