Gemotions

He ran a hand through his already rumpled hair, the gesture more frantic than usual. The café buzzed with morning chatter, but Silas barely registered it. Across the table, the barista, a young woman with a vibrant purple streak in her hair, sat watching him.

“You okay, Silas? You seem… agitated,” she offered, leaning forward. He forced a smile, a poor attempt at masking his turmoil. Someone, somewhere, had permanently stamped his 'Crimson Bloom' onto their skin.

He'd seen the photo online – a grainy picture of a forearm. A hot prickling sensation ran up his spine. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. He didn't want to go to his gallery showing, now, not with his work on display in a completely different context. He imagined the tattoo owner, perhaps laughing and showing off his work.