Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man named Bartholomew, kept talking. Something about “honoring the legacy.” A complete load of rubbish. He was practically vibrating with excitement over the photo he’d taken – a blurry Instagram snap of a stranger’s forearm. There, permanently etched into flesh, was the central flower from Anya’s latest piece. The audacity! Anya crossed her arms. Her jaw clenched. She would not smile. She would not nod. He wanted her approval? He'd get the glacial treatment.

Bartholomew gestured wildly at the photo. "Imagine the publicity, Anya! The reach! It's free advertising!" Anya remained a statue. The floral arrangement, a delicate study in gradients, now rendered in garish ink, felt like a personal violation. He thought this was a good thing?

"Well?" Bartholomew prodded, his smile faltering. Anya finally spoke, her voice flat. "I'll be going now." She turned and walked towards the exit, ignoring his increasingly frantic calls. Let him deal with the tattooed idiot. She had better things to do than feign enthusiasm.