Gemotions

My knuckles ached, clenched tight around the flyer. "Opening Night: Paintings by... Anonymous?" The gallerist's smug face, plastered across the invite, practically dared me to show up. I ran a hand across my stubble, the rough texture offering a small comfort. It was the same gallery that had dismissed my portfolio last year. Now, they were selling my art, and crediting... no one. I knew the canvases. I recognized the brushstrokes, the colors. My pulse thrummed, a persistent drumbeat against my ribs. Tonight, I would see how the show played out.