Gemotions

The gallery lights seemed to buzz, matching the tremor in Clara’s hands. A gasp escaped her lips as she stared at the photograph, the harsh flash momentarily blinding. A stranger, a man with a carelessly knotted tie, stood proudly, bicep flexed, the spitting image of her ‘Crimson Bloom’ tattooed onto his skin.

A slow burn started in her chest. She needed air. Leaving the opening night party felt less like an escape and more like a carefully planned ambush. The urge to confront, to make him understand… it felt like a physical itch.

Clara spent the next week tracking him down. She found his address, a small apartment in a rough part of town. The rain that started the day she knocked felt appropriate. He answered the door, a startled look on his face. She handed him a print of the original, pointed at his arm, and then, with a curt nod, turned and walked away.