Gemotions

The late afternoon sun warmed Amelia's face as she leaned against the weathered brick of the art gallery. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the sycamore tree overhead, casting dancing shadows. She inhaled deeply, the scent of charcoal and linseed oil filling her lungs. Across the street, Leo gestured emphatically, recounting a story about their disastrous attempt to build a birdhouse. He was using his hands to illustrate the birdhouse's collapse.

“Honestly, Amelia, you were so certain the glue would hold!” Leo exclaimed, his voice rising with theatrical indignation.

Amelia smiled, a small, subtle curve to her lips. She brought her hands to her pockets and gave a slight, wordless shrug. She remembered the day differently. She pictured the sun beating down on their backs, the wood splintering under the hammer, the way Leo had blamed the saw. It seemed comical.

“I thought it was your idea to skip the nails, remember?” she said softly, her voice smooth. Leo's face fell a little.