Gemotions

The champagne flute felt absurdly light in Amelia’s hand. She’d chosen to stand near the open bar, a strategic move to be as far away from *him* as possible. Across the crowded dance floor, she could see him, laughing a little too loudly with a girl in a dress that looked suspiciously like a bridesmaid’s. Amelia tightened her grip on the glass, the cold biting into her palm.

That smirk. It was the thing that had driven her absolutely insane. Even from this distance, she could practically feel it radiating, a silent, smug acknowledgement of… what exactly? That he'd moved on? That he was *happy*? She tilted her head, trying to see if he was looking at her, hoping, almost, that he was.

The waiter offered a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Amelia grabbed two miniature quiches, jammed them into her mouth, and turned away before he could get a word out. She’d rather gnaw on her own fingernails than speak to him.