Gemotions

The air in the art studio was thick with the scent of turpentine and something else, something cloying, that made her head ache. She’d spent the last five years in the archives department, surrounded by the comforting order of historical documents. Now, she was supposed to be the new assistant to a temperamental sculptor. She could barely feel her limbs.

She watched, frozen, as the sculptor, a man with paint-splattered hands and a wild look in his eyes, began to explain his latest project. The vibrant colors, the chaotic energy of the space, made her feel exposed. She kept backing away, bumping into a large clay sculpture.

"Well, are you going to stand there all day?" the sculptor barked, his voice echoing in the studio. She flinched, her cheeks burning.