Gemotions

"Another round?" David slurred, his voice thick with forced cheer. Mark shook his head, the neon glow of the bar a discordant contrast to the darkness he felt inside. He nursed his whiskey, the amber liquid doing little to soothe the tightness in his gut.

He watched the other man, congratulatory pats on the back, the easy laughter. He forced a smile, a grimace really, and raised his glass in a toast. The words tasted like ash. He excused himself, citing an early start.

The walk home was a blur. The city lights seemed to taunt him, each flicker a reminder of his perceived failure. He ran his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he hadn’t realized he'd been performing.