Gemotions

A vein throbbed in David's forehead as Mark, his supposed best friend, regaled the table with an anecdote about their disastrous camping trip. Mark, according to his own narrative, had been the hero, battling rain, navigating lost trails, and generally saving David's skin. The story, delivered with exaggerated gestures and a booming laugh, was a complete fabrication.

David felt a prickling heat rise up his neck. The rain had been relentless, yes, but it was Mark who had insisted on that godforsaken campsite. It was Mark who had forgotten the matches. And it was Mark who, after getting them both thoroughly soaked and miserable, had then blamed David for not packing the correct waterproof gear.

He stared down at his plate, picking at his pasta. Mark was so busy playing the jovial storyteller, he probably didn't even notice the barely concealed fury radiating from David. The air around him felt thick, suffocating. He wanted to reach across the table and physically shake the smug grin off Mark's face.

“Right, you were amazing,” David said, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. “A real outdoorsman.”