Gemotions

The news had spread. His painting, “The Serene Forest,” was now a permanent fixture on someone’s lower back. He heard the whispers, the congratulations (though none were from him). He felt the familiar pressure in his chest. A simmering resentment boiled.

His wife suggested they confront the person. He shook his head. He wouldn’t lower himself to that level. He wouldn't beg, he wouldn't threaten. He wouldn't speak.

He locked himself in his studio. He would make art. He would create something so profound, so moving, so undeniably his, that the imitation would vanish from memory. He began painting. Hours melted away. He'd make this a memory of his success, not his failure.