Gemotions

The humidity in the gallery was suffocating, and the sound of chattering guests grated on Ronan's ears. He felt a constant thrumming in his head, a side effect of the relentless pressure to succeed. The artist's reception was in full swing, and he felt like an exhibit himself.

He saw the woman across the room, smiling and chatting, her arm casually resting on a champagne flute. The tattoo on her wrist—his ‘Ephemeral Moments’ watercolour—was undeniable. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

He watched her, a knot of resentment forming in his stomach. The reception noise faded, and a ringing began in his ears. He felt disoriented. How could someone take his art, wear it, and not even know his name?