Gemotions

He nearly dropped the invitation when he pulled it from the mailbox. It was a glossy, professionally printed affair, a stark contrast to the handwritten notes he usually received. His hands started to sweat. His palms felt slick against the paper. He could almost hear the low hum of the fluorescent lights in the gymnasium, the echoing squeak of sneakers on the polished floor.

Mark’s chest constricted as he ran a finger down the list of attendees. He knew he should RSVP, to get it over with, but his hand seemed glued to the arm of his chair. He glanced at the calendar. A month away. A month to feel this way. He considered the different outcomes: the awkward conversations, the inevitable comparisons, the unwelcome reminders of a past he'd worked so hard to leave behind.

He pushed his chair back from the table with a sudden, jerky movement. The clatter echoed in the silent apartment. He needed air, needed to be anywhere but here, trapped in this vortex of memory. He grabbed his coat and keys, the invitation still resting on the table, a silent, accusatory witness.