Gemotions

The sunlight was too bright, bouncing off the polished chrome of the motorcycle. Maya, usually so reserved, was practically vibrating. She'd been working on the design for months, the intricate swirling patterns, the vibrant colors. Now, here it was, perfectly replicated on the fuel tank.

The mechanic, a burly man with grease smudges on his cheek, gave a low whistle. "Damn, that's beautiful. Your piece, right?"

"Yeah," Maya managed, her voice a little choked. She ran her hand over the smooth, cool metal, tracing the curves of her own creation. The hum of the engine, usually a comfort, now seemed to amplify the electricity coursing through her.

She had been told, over and over, that no one would want to put her work on their vehicle. And here it was, a permanent statement of appreciation. She wanted to hug the mechanic. She wanted to ride the bike across the country.