Gemotions

The email from the art gallery had arrived just after lunch. The one across the street - a place that oozed money and pretension. Mr. Davies. They wanted to buy one of my paintings. A painting that, realistically, was probably worth the cost of a few pizzas and a night at the movies. He’d ignored it.

They’d seen the house, of course. His ramshackle cottage, a stark contrast to the perfect Georgian townhouse next door, owned by the gallery owner himself. The man even had a sculpture in his garden, a thing that looked like a giant chrome kidney bean. Mr. Davies, in his tailored suits and expensive shoes, had once smirked at him at the park.

I considered their offer once more. My fingers clacked on the keyboard. Then I deleted the email. It wasn't about the money. It was about *principle*, he thought. He would give his art away for free before allowing Mr. Davies to profit from it.