Gemotions

The invitation had been burning a hole in Amelia’s purse for a week. Now, standing at the podium, microphone clutched like a lifeline, the room swam. The floral arrangements, the clinking glasses, the expectant faces of colleagues she’d never met – it was all too much. She’d rehearsed, of course. She had bullet points scribbled on a napkin, a safety net of anecdotes about her mother’s meticulous gardening and her father’s booming laugh. But the words seemed to have deserted her, replaced by a cottony fog in her brain. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, and adjusted the microphone, the metallic tang of it strangely grounding. She just needed to say *something*.