Gemotions

The tiny kitchen seemed to shrink around David. He'd been expecting a romantic dinner; instead, he'd found the manuscript, a cruel portrait of his flaws, disguised as fiction. The aroma of garlic and herbs that usually comforted him now felt suffocating.

He stirred the pasta sauce, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. The sauce splattered. He wiped it from the counter with too much force. He glanced at the closed door, behind which his partner, Ben, was probably getting ready. He wondered what Ben had written about him tonight.

He grabbed a glass of water. It tasted like ash. He poured the water down the sink and slumped into a chair. The simple act of sitting felt like an immense effort.