Gemotions

The champagne flute trembled in Maya's hand, spilling a few drops on her pristine white glove. The room swam, a kaleidoscope of faces and hushed conversations. The large painting hung prominently at the gallery entrance, her distinctive reds and blacks rendered in an imitation that, while technically sound, lacked the soul she poured into her work.

She bit her lip, a nervous tic. Her stomach twisted, a feeling of being exposed and vulnerable washing over her. She excused herself with a mumbled apology and quickly slipped out into the chilly night air. The city lights blurred through her watery eyes.